


Play Cissy For Me

by the_artful_scribbler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Little Light Bondage and Discipline, But Still Smokin' Hot, Elegant Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hate Sex, Hermione's Brilliance Backfires, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hot Sex, Lucius is an Arrogant Bastard, Oral Sex, PWP, Power Dynamics, Revenge Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, With a Hint of Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_artful_scribbler/pseuds/the_artful_scribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Complete! Hermione takes advantage of an invite to the Malfoys' ball to do some detective work on the slippery Mr Lucius Malfoy. But things do not go to plan. Not even remotely.<br/>Power dynamics, sexual politics, polyjuice hijinks and plenty of hot, angry sex! </p><p>*WON* 'Mischief Managed' (Best Recently-Completed Story) 2017 Granger Enchanted Survivors Awards. Also nominated for Best Smut & Witty Witch categories!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Play Cissy For Me

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally intended as a one-shot, but it kept on growing! The tone also changed somewhat, it started as drama/sex but ended up in the humour/sex territory.  
> My thanks and love go to my wonderful beta Storywriter831  
> JK Rowling owns everything.

... 

The plan had gone just swimmingly, up to the point the office door slammed open and the threshold was darkened by a very large, very forbidding silhouette.

 _Oh my god,_ Hermione thought,  _it's him. It's Lucius sodding Malfoy. Fuck fuck fuck._ And she had  _really_  started to sweat.

"Narcissa, my dearest," the blond wizard drawled in a voice like brushed silk, sweeping elegantly through the dimly-lit chamber to join her. "What in the name of Salazar are you doing in here? Have we not a ballroom full of guests to attend?"

Her breath caught with relief. She had not been rumbled. Not yet. But she was elbow-deep in the top drawer of his office bureau, and she wasn't exactly sure how she was going to explain herself.

"Hello, Lucius," she said shakily, for he was always intimidating, even from a distance, and now—looming large from the shadows, devilishly handsome in his evening attire—he made her almost dizzy with fear. Fear...and something else, which she couldn't quite name, and was in no hurry to, either. "I was just. Um. I was looking for..." she swallowed nervously, "...something," she finished lamely.

She met his silver gaze in the gilt-framed mirror that hung above the bureau...and a deep crimson flush began from her neck and gradually spread over her face to the roots of her hair.  _I bet SHE never blushes like this,_ she thought wildly, wondering how it was possible that he could not see  _her_  panic and confusion within his wife's tilting sapphire eyes.

Lucius's mouth was curving into a very slow, very disconcerting smile. He closed in behind her, reaching around to extract her arms from the bureau with his large jewelled hands. Immediately her senses were flooded by a heady combination of scents—sweet, expensive cologne, the slightly bitter fumes of fine wine and cigars, and a darker, sharper accent of emphatic masculinity. "You've got the wrong drawer, Narcissa," he growled in her ear, and his warm breath on her skin sent unbidden tingles all over her body. Gently he closed the top drawer, and just as gently he slid open the one below it. "I believe  _these_  are what you're looking for, milady?"

 _Oh my holy...ohhhh shit._  They were handcuffs. Actual handcuffs.  _What kind of man keeps handcuffs in his office?_   She had no time to give the question much thought because with one impossibly quick movement he had jerked both her arms behind her and cuffed her wrists—and that was when Hermione knew she was in deep trouble.

She simply froze. What could she say?  _Terribly sorry, Mr. Malfoy, there's been a bit of a mix-up. I've actually violated every Ministry law in the book by stupefying and impersonating your wife, infiltrating your home, and breaking into your office to conduct an unlawful search for incriminating evidence against you._ A nauseating anxiety twisted her insides. He could have her arrested—there were several highly-decorated officers of the DMLE under this same roof at this very moment. She could lose everything: her job, her clean record, her very reputation. Or worse, he could blackmail her for the rest of her life.... No! To confess was simply not an option. Then again, what the hell was going to happen to her if she  _didn't?_

"On second thoughts," the tall wizard was murmuring, his arms snaking around her and pulling her tightly against him, "I think the madding crowds may look after themselves for an hour or so."

She could feel... _him_  through her flimsy dress, an alarming hot rigidity pressing into her tailbone. Then he suddenly spun her around and half-lifted, half-shoved her onto the edge of the bureau's satiny top, pinning her in place with a hard thrust of his hips. Unable to maintain her balance with her hands cuffed behind her, she would have fallen backward, but Lucius held her up with his right hand spanning the narrow of her back, his left supporting her nape beneath the sheet of her long smooth hair.

Hermione's heart thudded as his thumb caressed her throat. His hand was so large, it nearly encircled her entire neck. She could feel his gaze burning into her, but she could not—could  _not—_ meet it. "I've got a headache," she blurted out desperately. "Maybe we—could—later—"

"Oh no, my dear, I'm not in the mood to entertain your capricious little games," he cut her off hoarsely, his mouth suddenly very close to hers. "...not tonight."

 _Where the hell did I put my bag—my wand?_   she thought frantically. Then she remembered: she had left the little, beaded clutch on his massive desk in the middle of the room, her wand stowed safely away inside.  _Damn._ "But—but, ah, I want to ch-change into something special, L-Lucius," she stammered. "Why don't you meet me in the bedroom in ten mi—"

Her words were cut off again, this time by his mouth. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was demanding and probing and deep and hard and  _hot_ , and she had never, never been kissed like that before in her life. When he released her lips she was giddy and breathless, her pulse racing like a rabbit's. "Oh," she couldn't help gasping.

His weight shifted and she nearly balked when she felt his warm hand slide past her knee, pushing her dress up and up until it was no more than a wreath of bunched silk at the top of her thighs. She began to wriggle furiously against him. "Stop it, Lucius, please!" she hissed, "I don't feel like— _ahhh!_ "

With a swift, artful movement of his hand, he had tugged aside the inadequate barrier of lace underwear with his fingers, and she yelped as he began to stroke his thumb up and down her exposed cleft. _MERLIN SAVE ME!_  She arced back, twisting against her restraints in helpless despair—no, helpless desperation—no, helpless  _pleasure,_ as he manoeuvred against her with subtle expertise, stooping down to catch her lips with his once more.

Clearly, he knew how to handle a woman. His touch was light and assured, no misguided prodding or painful jabs, simply caressing and insinuating, and ever-so-slowly applying pressure and depth until she was like wax in his hands, melting into an imperatively-building ecstasy, moaning against his mouth.

 _No, no, this cannot be happening!_  Her brain was a jumbled mess, her rational thought had been hijacked by pure sensation, and there was nothing to do but yield to its sweet demands.  _This can't be me, and—oh—oh—please tell me this is not Lucius Malfoy...._

"You little  _vixen_..." Lucius's voice was a low rasp in her ear. "Who have you been thinking about, to make you so wet?" And with the most exquisite precision, he pinched her with his perfectly-manicured nails. She cried out, her whole body bucking with the unexpected sting, but he was already stroking it away, a wicked curve touching his mouth. "Hmm?" he continued darkly. "Was it one of your pitiful, fawning gallery lapdogs, or one of those tedious braggarts from the club?"

He withdrew his supporting arm and instantly she fell backward, banging her head against the wall, her back arched awkwardly over her bound wrists—but she barely registered the discomfort, for he was applying both hands to her now, and she was emitting a series of mewling, panting cries....

He bent over her, his silver eyes locked on her face. "Tell me, Narcissa, who you're thinking about  _now_."

" _YOU!_ " she gasped out, "Oh—god—you— _you-ah-ahhhhh!_ " A star-burst of pure ecstasy shattered over her, as her muscles clenched around fingers buried deeply inside her, and convulsed against others rubbing beautifully against her, and she had no idea who she was anymore, and she didn't care, and her whole world was dark and spinning and humming, and so was  _she_....

When she finally opened her eyes (she hadn't realized she'd closed them) Lucius was gazing down at her, lynx-eyed and supremely triumphant, a self-satisfied smirk adorning his sharp features.

He pulled her up and off the bureau, holding her tightly against him until she gained her balance. She leaned limply against his broad expanse of chest, trying to harness her scattered thoughts into some semblance of rationality—but with little success. Surely this was all a dream. Surely she hadn't just succumbed to being pleasured by Lucius Malfoy, the man she detested above all others.  _Oh, no, no, no...._

She straightened her trembling legs and shook her tumbled hair out of her eyes. Her wrists were chafing, and her shoulder joints aching. "Will you unlock me now, please?" she croaked weakly.

Lucius regarded her with amusement. "And why," he murmured, "should I want to do that?"

She stared up at him, bewildered, and quailed under the intensity of his gaze. His irises were gleaming with a fiery liquidity, like molten silver, and he looked... hungry. Like a hungry predator cornering its prey. Then she realized parts of him were still pressing rigidly into her, just as hard and hot as before – and it dawned on her that they had only just completed the overture. The symphony was yet to begin.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry or scream or struggle, or just die.  _What would Narcissa do?_  she wondered desperately. She took a steadying breath and tried to assume an air of haughty disdain. "I am your wife, not one of your cheap harlots," she said as coldly as she could, cursing her quivering, shivering body. "And I  _don't_  appreciate you treating me like one."

He wound his hand in her hair, tugging it back so she was forced to arch against him. There was an edginess to his smile now. "You know my harlots are  _never_  cheap, my dear," he snarled softly. "And I will cease to treat you like one when you cease to behave like one."

 _Who ARE these people?_  Hermione thought frantically, as Lucius began to haul her inexorably over to his huge desk.  _What the hell kind of marriage do they have?_

She experienced a thrill of hope at the sight of her bag lying on the far corner of the desk. If only she could persuade him to free her wrists.... "I think it high time we rejoined our guests," she persevered, her voice much too highly-pitched and thoroughly unconvincing. She could almost taste the futility of her words as she spoke them. "Really, Lucius, we ought to continue this later...."

He responded by shrugging off his robe, throwing it over the hard mahogany surface, then thrusting her face-down into it. The luxurious velvet was deep and warm and exuded an intoxicating, complex concentrate of his scent, making her head reel dizzily. The narrowness of her dress prevented him from parting her legs with his own, and she sensed rather than felt him reach into his waistcoat to extract his wand. "Divestio," he muttered, and suddenly she was aware of an intense feeling of vulnerability and exposure: her bare breasts squashed into the soft fabric, the warmth of his heavy hand between her shoulder blades, and the unbearably arousing sensation of expensive wool rubbing her thighs and pressing deliciously into the damp heat between her legs.

She watched helplessly as his right hand relinquished his wand, not two feet away from her. But would she even have snatched for it, if she could? She didn't actually know. In fact, it turned out she didn't know  _anything_  about herself anymore. Never in ten million years would she have imagined she would be stripped naked and bent over Lucius Malfoy's office desk, just about crying with anticipation of his touch.

She whimpered as he ran his palms over her hips and bottom. He was making shallow, teasing thrusts against her, and she found herself trying to propel her body back to meet them, to  _feel_  him.

 _I want him._  The truth broke over her like a bursting dam, overwhelming, incontrovertible, irrefutable.  _I want him inside me._

As if reading her mind, there was a pause and Lucius's weight lifted momentarily off her. She quivered deliriously as she heard the clink of a buckle being unfastened, the creak of a leather belt loosening, the muted whir of a zip being unhurriedly opened. It made her almost swoon with frenzied, expectant desire.

Instinctively she raised and tilted herself in readiness for him, and she heard him growl softly in response. He grasped one of her knees and pushed it up onto the desk, exposing her even more, and then he used his fingers to splay open her folds. She gasped at the first searing contact of his heavy, engorged member as he slicked himself in her dampness, running the swollen head up and down her cleft, making her writhe and squirm.

But he had not quite finished torturing her. "What do you say,  _Cissy_?" His voice was both taunting and tantalizing.

 _Please. Please! PLEASE!_  "Please," she whispered faintly, panting.

"Please—what?"

"Please... um..." _Could she really say it?_  "...Please f—f—"

He grasped a fistful of her hair and twisted her head back to meet his gaze. He loomed ascendantly over her, huge and menacing, like some avenging Saxon god. "Please— _what_?"

"Please f-f-fu—"  _Oh god, this was it, then,_   "—fuck me..."

Lucius's mouth curved into a victorious, pitiless smile. "With  _pleasure_ , milady." And with a sudden, savage lunge, he sheathed himself fully inside her.

A scream tore from her mouth, a strangled cry of pain and pressure and stretched overfullness—he was too, too big—oh, god did it  _hurt—_ but it was a wonderful hurt, such as she had never experienced before, not even her first time, which had been all pain and zero wonder.

Lucius looked pleased with the conflicting expressions on her face, and he drew out slowly, his eyes still riveted to hers, his hands wrapped deeply in her hair. His second thrust was as brutal as his first, and again she cried out in an ecstasy of agony, or an agony of ecstasy, wondering just how she was going to take it, how her body— _or was it Narcissa's body?_  —was going to endure such an unrelenting battering without breaking into a thousand pieces....

Not only did she endure it, but somehow endurance turned into acquiescence, then acceptance...then absolute, helpless, incomprehensible  _pleasure_....

For what seemed a suspended eternity he pounded into her at a measured, thudding pace, using her cuffed wrists for leverage and her long hair for control. The drag and the drive, the push and the pull, the fill and the void—to these undeniable forces she could only submit, and exult in the submission, no matter that he who unleashed them upon her was her greatest opponent and oldest foe. She could no longer think or understand, she could only  _feel._ Him.

More than once he plastered himself heavily along her back to growl obscenities in her ear; more than once he pulled her roughly upwards to rove his hands over the soft flesh of her breasts, mercilessly pinching the sensitive tips until she was incoherently begging, though she didn't know what for.

At last. the muscles in his thighs tensed and his steady thrusts accelerated and intensified to a ferociously fast hammering. She was already emitting a high wailing noise, but it fragmented into broken cries as he reached down and applied two dexterous fingers to her parting, seeking out the small pulsating orb of over-stimulated nerves, manipulating her until she shuddered uncontrollably against him, sobbing rapturously, saturated by wave after wave of cresting and crashing ecstasy.

With a powerful shunt and a loud groan, Lucius climaxed into her throbbing passage, his essence spilling inside her, the thick viscosity slowing his final few strokes. He collapsed on top of her, panting heavily in her ear, his long hair falling about her like a snowy, silken shroud.

For a while they remained locked together, Hermione pinned down by Lucius's crushing weight, trying to catch her breath, her eyes wide and staring. She felt dazed, bruised, blissful and sated. _And well and truly fu—_

"My dear, that was most gratifying." Lucius's purring voice interrupted her thoughts, and she felt regret, actual regret, as he withdrew and lifted himself off her. "How delightfully responsive you were tonight...marvellously  _vocal_...in fact,  _not_   _at all yourself."_

Her heart leaped into her throat at his subtly-accented words.  _Did he suspect? Did he somehow...know?_

Lucius picked up his wand and she heard him briefly murmur an unlocking spell. The cuffs sprang open and he removed them from her bruised wrists, then helped her to her feet. She dared not meet his eyes as he adjusted his clothing and cleaned his robe, although somehow she knew he was smiling, and that his smile was a many-times-magnified version of the smug, triumphant smirk she had seen before.

He donned the velvet garment and moved leisurely over to the mirror, spending some moments using his wand to neaten his hair and re-starch his collar and neck-cloth, until he was once more as impeccable and immaculate as when he had first entered the chamber.

And then he simply left, stalking regally from the room, without a backward glance.

Hermione leaned feebly against the desk, still breathless, in a kind of shocked trance. She was trembling from head to toe, inside and out.  _What...the hell...just...happened?_

Perhaps she stood there for a few minutes, perhaps for a lifetime. She had completely lost her grip on all sense of time and reality. The chiming of a wall-clock finally snapped her out of her reverie.  _Eleven o'clock,_ she thought and hurried over to the mirror.  _Any second now..._

She watched, transfixed, as her porcelain-white skin took on a creamier tone, her flowing blonde tresses curled and darkened, her eyes resized and retinted, her doll-like mouth widened, her pretty pointed nose regained a more ordinary shape...and there she stood, her own familiar self once more....

...Only, she had the distinct feeling she would never, never  _truly_ recognize herself, ever again.


	2. Head Over Heels in Hate With You

Why, oh bloody why, had it been _him_ , of all people?

If only it had been someone else— _anyone_ else. Anyone but Lucius bloody Malfoy.

Insufferable, intolerable, intolerant, insolent _pig_.

_Death Eater._

Yes, he would always be a Death Eater to her, just as she would always be a Mudblood to him—to _all_ the hypocritical self-serving Pureblood supremacists still rife within the Ministry. Spouting rhetoric about "equality" and "progress" whilst still jealously guarding their Old Boy's Club, tooth and nail. She knew all too well what they thought of her being admitted into their ranks—he, most of all. He'd taken little enough trouble to hide his sentiments on the subject.

With a bitter pang, she remembered overhearing his snide comments, after her appointment to the board six months earlier. "I see the DIMC is fulfilling its obligations to the Mixed Representation Act," she'd heard him remark to one of the officials as she passed them in the lobby, his silken voice edged with an elegant sneer. "How admirably _efficient_ , killing two birds with one stone in the shape of Miss Granger. A muggle _and_ a female."

It had stung badly—perhaps _worse_ because of the element of potential truth behind his words. Why should the Board trouble itself to appoint two minority delegates, when they could get away with one?

She was certain he'd intended for her to hear him, and she'd stopped in her tracks, turned to him, and bestowed on him her sweetest smile. "Such a great shame _you_ are not eligible for election, Malfoy," she'd said, in deliberately dulcet tones. "You could _definitely_ fill up a quota for wand-restricted, magic-reduced, advisory-only, former Death Eaters."

He'd looked as if he could have cheerfully strangled her right there and then, and she'd sashayed off with a rather triumphant skip in her step.

From then on it had been all-out war between them; she, flaunting her position over him at every opportunity, he using his influence to thwart her work at every turn... And she'd enjoyed it, their vicious sparring, the pitting of their incisive wits—most especially the heady sensation of power when she asserted her superiority over him, gleefully rubbing his supercilious nose in his diminished position and magical impotence. She could almost _taste_ his wrath _._

But then. Then.

It had happened.

One month ago today.

If only she hadn't...hadn't _loved_ it so much. If only she hadn't felt so damned satisfied... _completed_. Until that moment, the moment he bent her over his desk and thrust himself into her, she hadn't realized anything was missing from her life. She had thought she was happy. Well-rounded. A little sexually frustrated maybe, but nothing that couldn't be assuaged by a quiet moment in bed, with a certain acquisition from a Naughty Nymphs catalogue, and a choice Vibrato spell.

How wrong she'd been.

Oh, if he only knew the chaos he'd caused in her head, his own would probably explode with the swelling.—Night and day, asleep or awake, she was haunted by the memory of that night—of _him._ Pounding mercilessly into her. Stretching and filling her. Making her sob with helpless pleasure, crying out for him, again and again...

It was driving her to distraction. She was almost tempted to Obliviate herself, to remove the tormenting vision from her brain once and for all.

But she couldn't. The memory had become like an opiate to her—an incredible, indelible, guilty pleasure. One which she replayed nightly in her head, her fingers frantically rubbing herself into a desperate climax, until her brain was saturated with dopamine, her body flooded with endorphins, and she lay shuddering and panting in the darkness.

 _Damn that blond bastard,_ was her customary closing thought, before she dropped off to sleep.

And then dreamed of _him_.

* * *

…

Hermione threaded her way down the long Ministry corridors, avoiding eye-contact with all the other home-heading workers. She didn't stride anymore. She scurried. Furtively, surreptitiously, always on the look-out...

She saw him often, but she never let him see her—no, she made absolutely sure of that. Their paths could not help but cross frequently: the nature of their respective positions within the Ministry guaranteed it. But Hermione always managed to slip away if she glimpsed him sauntering down the corridors; or, if she found herself in danger of being accidentally cornered, she would quickly Disillusion herself until he had passed by.

 _I simply MUST get that bigoted bastard out of my head,_ she thought as she hurried along, her eyes fixed on her feet _. I won't let that prick mess up my life. He's nothing to me—nothing. A dark wizard. A Death Eater. A Slytherin. A Pure-blood supremacist. A Malf—_

"Ooof!" She collided with something at once velvety and solid, ricocheting her backward. She would have fallen if strong arms hadn't shot out to pull her back upright, and in that very second she knew—she just knew—knew beyond all doubt— _who_ it was.

 _His_ touch, _his_ scent.

"Miss Granger." _His_ voice, drawling and elongating the syllables of her name.

"Ms," she corrected, immediately wrenching herself out of his odious, revolting, unbearable hands. _His skillful, supple, dexterous hands._ "Watch where you're going, Malfoy," she spat, her stomach churning with a sickening complexity of emotions. A month and a day ago, she would have held his gaze challengingly. Now, she avoided it at all costs.

"But I am watching, Miss Granger," Lucius replied in a maddeningly suave voice. "I'm watching _you_. You see, I've been looking for you."

_He had?_

She gulped. There was a long, laden silence. Hermione stood, rooted to the spot, in an agony of indecision. She longed to look up into those gleaming, silver eyes. But she had a distinct impression that if she did, the game would be entirely up. "What do you want, Malfoy?" she finally managed to rasp.

She heard him breathe leisurely in, leisurely out. "I want to _give_ something to you, Miss Granger," he said in a worryingly smug tone, "—or perhaps I should say, _return_ something to you."

He took a step towards her, deliberately breaching the barrier of space she had installed between them. Hermione fought to stand her ground, though her body seemed to be liquifying, her knees particularly. "I don't want anything from you, Malfoy," she hissed at him.

She made to push past him, but he quickly grasped her left wrist and jerked her tightly up against him. "I'm afraid I _must_ insist," Lucius growled softly. His tone was delicately dangerous, and—she couldn't help it—her eyes snapped up to connect with his.

At that moment, her heart seemed to lurch to a stop. She couldn't breathe.

 _He knows!_ she thought wildly. It was there, in his eyes, etched in silver. _How can he know? How is it possible?_ Somehow she managed to tear her eyes away from his riveting gaze—but succeeded only to drop them as far down as his curving mouth. She swallowed rapidly and drily, several times. "What—what is it?" she croaked.

With the subtlest of manoeuvres he had her pressed against the stone wall, his arm resting next to her head, the long sleeve of his robes entirely concealing her from the hurrying passers-by. "That's for me to know, Miss Granger," he murmured in her ear—literally, she could feel his mouth brushing her skin, making her shiver—"and you to find out presently. First, I suggest we remove to somewhere a little more... _private_."

She let the implications of this sink slowly in. Her heart had started up again, but now it was going far too fast, thudding erratically like a runaway coach-and-four. He was too close, much too close... _Oh god, that scent...so...so damned...narcotizing..._ Her lips felt numb as she spoke. "How do I know you won't hurt me?"

Lucius smiled down at her. And made no answer.

Something exquisite fluttered inside her.

So. He _had_ something on her, did he?

Her blood surged through her body, swirling around its most sensitive points. For the first time in a month, she felt as if she were coming _alive_ , awakening from some deep, dull hibernation. She was in for a battle. A battle of wits. "Alright," she heard herself say. Bright sparks of light were flitting and dancing through her. She tingled everywhere. It was as if she had been _waiting_ for this moment for twenty-eight torturous days. "When?" she said. "Now?"

The smile deepened, the silver eyes glimmered. "Now."

* * *

…

It was an opulent and luxuriously-appointed reception room—Hermione would give it that—but really, the Slytherin-centric colour scheme bordered on gratuitous, and the overuse of serpent motifs in the soft furnishings was frankly vulgar. She sat perched on the edge of a green damask chaise-lounge, facing an oppositely-stationed Lucius, who lounged gracefully back on an oversized, green leather chesterfield.

Lucius was scrutinizing her impassively, and Hermione felt her cheeks glowing. She was dying to speak—well, to insult—but no way was she hazarding the opening gambit. She sat with her lips pressed tightly together, waiting.

"So..." he drawled at length, "it would seem that little-miss-Mudblood—"

"DON'T call me that!" she interjected furiously, but he ignored her and smoothly continued, "—that little-miss-Mudblood— _darling_ of the Ministry, mistress of all she surveys—has been a very naughty little witch. Quite...insubordinate." He slanted one eyebrow, and gave her a significant smirk. "Tell me, my dear, did you _enjoy_ having a Pureblood wizard inside you? I'm fascinated to know...did you feel somehow...cleansed?"

Hermione leaped to her feet, wielding her wand in her clenched fist. "You _disgusting_ —you _utter_ —you _unmitigated_ —" she sputtered, trying to find a suitable word to describe the man.

Lucius merely crossed his booted legs and chuckled urbanely. "Oh, _do_ cool your cauldron, Miss Granger, I beg you," he said lightly, making a directive gesture for her to sit back down. "You're so deplorably easy to pique, did you know that?"

Seething, but reluctant to prove him right, Hermione resumed her seat. "Just tell me what you want, Malfoy," she snarled, "before I hex those Pure-blood parts of which you are so proud right off."

He smiled at this, and Hermione was distinctly reminded of a tiger. A very large, white tiger. "Very well, Miss Granger, I shall cut to the proverbial chase. I believe that _these_ ,"—he reached into his robe and pulled out a scrap of lacy material—"belong to you."

 _Well, would you look at that_ , Hermione thought incredulously. _My knickers. What an abominably cliché piece of incrimination._

He tossed them onto her lap with a precise flick of his wrist. "I've had them independently tested and verified, of course."

"Of course," she replied, desperately fighting an overwhelming urge to burst into hysterical laughter. Or was it to burst into hysterical tears? She wasn't quite sure, and thankfully the feeling passed.

Again he reached into his robe, this time producing a small, sealed scroll. "Are you familiar with the archaic, though not obsolete, system of barter, my dear?"

"Yes," she gritted through clenched teeth.

"But of course you are," Lucius said, with mock-chagrin. "Forgive me, Miss Granger, for a moment I forgot what an insufferable little swot you are."

"The point, Malfoy," she huffed.

"The point—ah, yes. Well, my dear, I should like to engage in a barter with you."

"You mean a blackmail."

Lucius shrugged. "Call it whatever you please, provided I get what I want. This scroll,"—he waved it at her— "of which I'm sure we _both_ know the contents, in return for...hmmm..." He paused, ostensibly giving the matter serious thought. Then, as if he had a sudden bright idea—"Ah! A place on the board should do nicely, I think."

She gawped at him. "You're not _allowed_ —"

"Not my problem, Miss Granger," he overrode her protestations.

"But it's _impossible_ —"

"Nothing should be impossible for so enterprising a witch as yourself," he replied silkily.

She stared at him and was dismayed by the steeliness behind his silvery gaze. _He really means it,_ she realized. _Shit._

Hermione eyed the scroll, now resting in his lap. The jewels of his rings sparkled tauntingly as he lightly drummed his fingers upon the sealed paper. _So much for a battle of wits,_ she thought. _He's stitched me up like a kipper._

She took a deep breath. "Fine," she muttered.

Lucius's smile widened rakishly. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your reply, Miss Granger. _What_ did you say?"

"I said _fine_!" she repeated loudly, wrathfully.

He clapped his hands sharply, once, then rubbed them together with exaggerated relish. "Good!" he said, sitting up straighter. "I'll have your word on that if you please—oh, nothing too onerous, just a regular Debtor's Oath will suffice."

Gritting her teeth, Hermione performed the wandwork and grumblingly made her vow. _Great,_ she thought, _now every single board meeting is going to be spent trying to ignore his detestable, gloating face..._

At the completion of the ritual, Lucius stood and presented her the scroll with a derisive flourish. Hermione immediately Incendio'd the roll of sealed paper, and then, flushing every invented shade of scarlet, she did the same to her knickers. Relief washed over her as she destroyed the last traces of her transgression—relief, but also something else. Something uncomfortably akin to...disappointment.

"I hope you realize, _Malfoy,_ "—she said his name as if it tasted particularly unpleasant—"that once you're elected to the board I'm going to dedicate every waking moment to getting you expelled off it again."

Lucius's eyes glinted and his mouth curled at the corners. "I would expect nothing less from my little-miss-Mudblood nemesis."

Hermione prickled, but refused to rise to the bait. "Right. Well, I won't take up any more of your time," she said, more glumly than snarkily, making her way over to the huge, black-granite fireplace. "Your reflection might start getting jealous."

She was just about to take a handful of Floo powder when Lucius's unexpectedly-near voice her made her jump. He was standing right behind her, though she hadn't heard him follow her. "There was just one last thing, my dear," he murmured.

And before she could so much as twitch, let alone grab for her wand, Lucius had pulled her roughly back against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around her and pinning her own to her sides. His silky hair spilled over her shoulder and his breath was hot on the bare skin of her neck as he spoke. "I forgot to mention that I don't intend to allow you to leave until I have fucked you senseless, Miss Granger. Quite senseless. You see, I've never heard anyone _squeal_ so delectably as you did, that night when I had you over my desk, disguised as my beloved wife. Your level of enthusiasm was truly...invigorating. Indeed, I've thought of little else over these last several weeks."

Hermione gasped. A flame had blazed up inside her at his touch and was spreading like wildfire through her entire body, burning her up, melting her down. _Huh,_ she thought dizzily, disjointedly. _Well,_ _it's nice to know I wasn't the only one..._


	3. A Fox Is A Wolf Who Sends Flowers

Hermione wasn't exactly sure how it happened, or in what order it all occurred, but by the time she caught up mentally to what was happening to her physically, she had already been disarmed, gathered up, transferred and deposited onto the huge green chesterfield couch, and Lucius was standing over her, her own wand lightly balanced in his hands.

 _How did he get that?_ she wondered hazily _...And more to the point, what is he planning to do with it?_

She flinched reflexively when he pointed it at her, and the haziness receded somewhat as the reality of her position forced itself into focus. She was an unarmed muggle-born female, all alone with a very large, very dangerous Pureblood-supremacist, wielding a wand straight at her head. Not, perhaps, the wisest situation she'd ever got herself into.

Hermione wondered if she should be worried.  _Probably,_ she thought. He did, after all, have quite a flinty gleam in his eye, and his expression was the polar opposite of reassuring. ...But she couldn't quite manage to fit "worry" in and around the deluge of desire which had inundated her completely when he had pulled her against him and told her in plainest terms what he intended to do to her.

There was simply no room left for anything else.

"Where to begin..." Lucius murmured.

Hermione's heart thudded at the sound of his voice, so smooth and suave, but absolutely brimming with menacing self-control. His lips parted as he began to utter an incantation—but then he appeared to change his mind. She breathed a little easier as he lowered the wand. "No," he said softly—although she wasn't sure if he were addressing her or speaking to himself—"No, let's make things a little more interesting..." His mouth flicked upwards at one corner. "You're always harping on about witch empowerment, aren't you, my dear? So presumably you'll prefer to disrobe _without_ assistance." He paused for a moment, tapping the wand lightly against his fingertips, then raised his brows with mock-expectancy. "Well, Miss Granger? I'm waiting."

Hermione felt her cheeks reddening, and her mouth was suddenly very, very dry. He wanted her to—to strip? While he just stood there and watched?

"Can't we just—um—"

"No," he cut in.

"But I'd rather—"

"I may be a gentleman, Miss Granger," he said silkily. "But pray do not mistake me for a patient one."

Hermione grimaced. _You're no gentleman,_ she thought irritably—but none-the-less her fingers went to the buttons of her robe and she began, rather shakily, to unhook them.

She wished she was wearing something more attractive beneath the thick black garment, but when she had donned her work clothes this morning the last thing she had expected was to be stripping them off again under Lucius Malfoy's supercilious gaze. Although, admittedly, stranger things had happened.

Peeling off and discarding the outer layer, she darted a look up at the wizard, easily reading his deriding disapproval of her grey nylon pencil skirt and shapeless white blouse. "They're work clothes, Malfoy," she snapped at him, getting hotter and grouchier by the second. "Not _haute couture_."

"No, they are assuredly not _that_ ," he replied, his voice as sneering as his expression.

He moved gracefully over to an oaken sideboard and poured himself a glass of tawny liquid from a crystal decanter. She saw his wide shoulders moving beneath his own sharply-tailored robe as he lifted the glass to take an unhurried swig. "Remove your skirt," he instructed briefly.

She very nearly refused.

His high-handed arrogance was really starting to gall her, and that all-consuming desire was fast abating under his mocking derision. ...But then she thought of his—his—a-and how she had dreamed of it for a whole agonizing month...and she simply couldn't help herself.

Hermione perched on the edge of the couch and quickly, almost angrily, tugged off her shoes, then fumbled with the side zipper of her skirt. She wriggled the material over her hips, sliding it past her knees, down to her ankles, and then kicked the garment inelegantly off. She was fairly certain this was the most clumsy, awkward striptease ever to have been performed in the whole history of the world.

Lucius moved back over to her, and she could feel his gaze raking her from top to toe. She sat, knees pressed together, arms crossed self-consciously, awaiting his next instruction. "My dear girl," he finally spoke, and his voice fairly dripped with disdain, "do you buy everything in packs of twelve?"

Hermione stared up at him, confused, then her face went from scarlet to vermilion as she realized. Her knickers. They were exactly the same as the ones she had just Incendio'd.

"They were 'buy one, get one half-price'," she blurted out defensively, then went even redder at what she had just said. Furious and flustered, she grabbed her bunched-up, wrong-side-out skirt from the floor and began, unsuccessfully, to wrestle herself back into it. "Don't you _dare_ sneer at me, Malfoy," she spat acidly, her eyes prickling hotly, "—some of us are too busy with _actual careers_ to worry about the stupid things that people with _large gaps_ in their diaries— _aaagh!_ " She shrieked as Lucius suddenly grabbed her leg and jerked it out from under her, tumbling her backward onto the chesterfield.

Still smarting from his taunt, Hermione kicked viciously out at him, only narrowly missing his crotch. Lucius's mocking smile immediately disappeared— _HAH! That wiped his smirk off!_ she thought manically—and she heard him growl as his eyes blazed with real anger. He lunged for her, momentarily grappling with her flailing limbs, then flipped her roughly face down into the leather squabs. She cried out as his knee shoved sharply into her back, and his hands gripped her wrists tightly and painfully together behind her. "You will apologize for that, Mudblood," he snarled in her ear.

"Sod off, you _arsehole!_ " she cried out irately, her voice muffled by the couch.

He applied more crushing force to her wrists, making her yelp. "Apologize!" he demanded again.

She managed to twist her face to one side and shouted at him, "I'D RATHER LICK FLOBBERWORM MUCUS OFF THE FLOOR!"

There was a pause, and then the pressure on her back and wrists relented, and she was somewhat surprised to hear Lucius chuckle. He pulled her back over to face him, and, grasping her chin with one large, jeweled hand, he leaned closely over her. "...That could easily be arranged, Miss Granger," he drawled softly, his mouth bare inches from hers.

Hermione glared up at him, chest heaving, wild-haired and crimson-faced. "You're a pig," she hissed, wriggling futilely against him.

The corners of his mouth curled. "And you are an inveterate little savage of a Mudbl—"

 _CRACK!_ Hermione's hand whipped across his cheek, hard enough to make her palm burn, and causing Lucius's head to jerk a little to one side.

...The sound seemed to reverberate endlessly around the suddenly-much-too-silent room.

Lucius's jaw clenched, and Hermione felt every muscle in his body tensing along her. She could see the red hand-print on his pale face, and his eyes were hard and glittering dangerously. Her own eyes widened as, for one fearful moment, she really thought he might return the hit...

A strained, smouldering tension stretched between them, taut and sparking and humming with something like rage, something like desire...

And then it simply snapped—and his lips were crushed upon hers, his tongue was plunging and twisting inside her mouth, her own frantically twining and pushing back—and they were locked together in a fervent, furious exchange of lust and hatred—but the hatred was heady, and only made the lust hotter, too hot, _unbearably_ hot...she arched up to him, moaning, almost despairing with impossible need.

Suddenly grasping her wrists, Lucius swiftly hauled her up to stand, then, gripping the panels of her blouse in his fists, he rent them apart, scattering little plastic buttons everywhere. With a few savage movements, he tore the garment and everything beneath it entirely away from her body, until she stood before him in only her lacy knickers, flushed and panting from their recent frenzied tussle, and trembling with anticipation for what must surely follow.

His gaze burned a lingering trail over her bare curves, and Hermione shivered deliciously at the undisguised, heated covetousness of his expression.

She squeaked as Lucius abruptly twirled her around, pulling her down backward so she landed in his lap, her back pressed against his hard chest. His right arm tightly braced her midriff, his left hand encircled her throat, so she lay helplessly pinioned and sprawled against him, her head forcibly tilted back to rest in the crook of his shoulder. With a slight adjustment, he had her legs splayed wide, draped on either side of his, and his hand slid downwards to dance along the inner edge of her knickers. "Now then, little savage," he growled softly, tugging the lacy panel aside, "let's hear you beg for me in your own voice."

Her whole body convulsed as Lucius's fingers found their mark, but his hold on her throat prevented her from doing anything but squirm and cry out as he began to caress her exposed seam. "Oh, my fffu—oh _god_ ," she gasped, every remnant of residual rage evaporating at the first skillful stroke.

Pleasure, undiluted pleasure began to soak through her, melting her insides to absolute mush, shutting down every part of her brain that wasn't directly linked to sensation. _How is he so good?_ she vaguely wondered. _How can a man so thoroughly bad, be so thoroughly good at this?_ He seemed to be playing her like she was an instrument: the knuckle of his thumb pressed against her sensitive nub, his index finger stroking up and down her cleft, his two longest fingers pushing up inside her throbbing, wet entrance.

"Do you like that, little witch?" he spoke in her ear. "Do you want more?"

"Mmmyesss..."

"Say 'please', Miss Granger."

"Please... _please_ , Lucius... _oh_ _please_..." Hermione mewled incoherently as he began to increase the pressure and speed... She could feel his bulging hardness pressing up beneath her, and it made her almost wild with want— _ye gods_ , but she wanted him _in_ her again—she wanted that unremitting, ruthless, pleasure-pain—to be crammed with too much, forced to take _more_ — to forget everything and simply _feel feel feel_...

Her arms raised behind her to clutch at his shoulders and the tips of her fingers met with his long hair. It was exquisitely silky, and only fuelled her desire for him to further heights. She was nearing the brink, already over-aroused from weeks of pent-up frustration, and the incredible sensations were converging and building into something inescapable, uncontainable—and then Lucius suddenly pressed his mouth against her ear, his warm tongue flickered into its sensitive center, and he whispered harshly, "Come for me, witch,"—and what could she do but obey?

She cried out, her spine arching, her hands clenched in his hair. She wanted desperately to wrench herself forwards, to meet the cresting ecstasy head-on, but he continued to restrain her with his collaring hold, forcing her to accept the pleasure as he chose to dispense it: leisurely, tormentingly... " _Fuck!_ Oh god, Lucius! _Yessssss!_ " she practically wailed as he brought her, shuddering and writhing, to dizzying completion.

She collapsed limply in his arms, dissolved in pleasure, trembling uncontrollably. "Th-thank-you," she stammered, wondering giddily how she had gone from slapping him to thanking him in the space of just a few minutes.

"Oh, I certainly expect you to, my dear," Lucius replied drily.

He lifted her easily off him and she slumped back against the back of the seat, in an enjoyably spinning stupor.

Lucius stood up and calmly removed his robe and jacket, fastidiously folding them over the back of the couch. Then, deliberately placing his booted feet on either side of her bare ones, he stationed himself in front of her—and suddenly, with wonderful clarity, she realized exactly _how_ she would be thanking him...

She watched, mesmerized, as his hands went to the front of his immaculately-pressed trousers and unloosed his belt and flies, lowering his waistband. Hermione sat up, suddenly very much alert (and somewhat alarmed) as he freed himself from the expensive material. _Godric's galoshes!_ she thought wildly, her eyes utterly riveted on his formidable rigidity, _—_ _no wonder it hurt so much!_ —And then something triggered inside her brain, like the blinding spark of a shorting light-bulb, and she was already sliding off the seat to her knees and leaning forwards to wrap her hands and lips around his girth—because, for the first time in her not-very-experienced life, she simply _wanted_ to...

Willingly— _eagerly_ , she lapped and licked and tasted him, her tongue laving every inch of him, then she tried taking as much as she could manage to the back of her throat until she nearly gagged around his constricting size.

"Look at me," said Lucius, his usually-velvet voice slightly strained and hoarse. Hermione did so, and an extra quiver stole through her as her eyes connected with his glinting silver ones. A slow smile curved his lips. "What a delightful prospect you present, Miss Granger," he said, gazing down at her. "Every time I'm forced to sit through one of your tiresome conference lectures, I shall fondly reminisce upon the moment your mouth was wholly obstructed by my cock."

She should have been riled by his speech, but she just didn't care anymore—she was too far gone, drunk on his heady taste, hopelessly high on pure lust—and anyway, for all his mocking words, she could see he was becoming flushed, his eyes were glazing, his breath was quickening... oh, yes, she was getting to him, alright... —

Suddenly Lucius grasped her hair and pulled her away from him. "Enough, enough!" he ground out hoarsely. "I've got to fuck you, or be damned."

He dragged her up and all but threw her along the chesterfield, wrenching her legs apart and settling himself heavily between them. He paused momentarily to hook her knee over his left arm, tilting her hips up to gain deepest access, and used his right hand to guide himself against her slick entrance. She moaned at the sensation of his heavy member centering upon her core as he aligned himself to her—and then his eyes met hers, his teeth bared slightly, and with a sudden lunge, he slammed himself into her, filling her to the hilt.

Hermione choked out a breathless, strangled yelp.

She barely registered his crushing weight, or the fact her hair was snagged on one of his cuff-links, or that his belt-buckle was stabbing her thigh—these discomforts were peripheral and inconsequential—the only reality was _him_ , inside her...and a frightening realization that this time— _this_ time, the pain might win out against pleasure. Too late, it occurred to her that the last time he had taken her she had been borrowing someone else's body, someone else's framework—someone who had had over twenty years to adapt herself to him...

Her nails clawed into his shoulders, and she clutched onto him as if to keep from drowning, as Lucius drew back and began to thrust powerfully into her, again, and again, and again... and then, just when she thought her tolerance threshold must surely break, he bent down to catch her lips with his—his tongue plunged deeply in her mouth, mimicking the rhythm of his pounding appendage—and Hermione found herself relaxing, _opening_ , and she accepted him fully into her. Her legs wrapped around Lucius's lower back, her hips lifted to meet his next thrust, and then she was born aloft by a vortex of surging, glittering pleasure, spinning her upwards, ever upwards towards a plateau of blissful ecstasy...

"Yes!" she hissed fiercely, "Yes, _yes_ , _Lucius_!" His eyes fixed on her lips, wide open, calling out his name, and she heard him growling deep in his throat as she came, came hard, around him.

He rode her long and hard, his stamina and strength such that she crested three more times and lay quivering beneath him, almost comatose with satiation before he finally began to build towards his own climax. Finally she felt his muscles tauten, and Lucius suddenly pushed himself up so he was half-kneeling, half-standing: his left knee shoved behind her thigh, his right leg extended to the floor, both hands braced on the arm of the couch above her head, and he hammered himself into her faster, faster, harder, harder...

And then with a final surge forwards Lucius emitted a rasping groan; Hermione felt the deep, hot thickness of his essence filling and coating her, and it triggered her to one last, final release, this one coiling languidly through her, making her whimper and shudder in exhausted delirium.

Lucius fell heavily upon her, his breath ragged in her ear, strands of his long hair clinging to her sweaty cheek and temple.

Still fused deeply within her, he brought his arms around her shoulders and gathered her closely against him, and for a moment Hermione felt as if he were cradling her in a passionate lover's embrace...but then gradually she became aware of a torrent of rasping words pouring into her ear, and she realized he was tauntingly averring his victory over her, declaring his mastery of her, exulting in her surrender...

Hermione closed her eyes, breathed his scent deeply in, and tuned out his words.

Words were just... _words_ , and at this moment, spent, soporific and saturated with pleasure, she just couldn't care less about them.

Some day she would make him eat them.

But for now, she lay still and silent, entwined in her enemy's arms, and smiled into his shoulder.


	4. Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Hot

Hermione was fuming. Raging. Incandescently, blisteringly livid.

She could barely hear the Chairman over the roaring fury in her ears.

"That is twenty 'Ayes' to twenty-one 'Nays'," he was monotonously intoning. "Therefore, I herewith declare the motion denied, and this meeting adjourned."

There was a chorus of thankful exhalations, and the room immediately began to bustle with scraping chairs, snapping briefcases and chatting board members shuffling out the door.

Hermione slammed her own satchel shut, her cheeks aflame with ire. _That lying, son-of-a-Slytherin arsehole! He promised!_

She stared daggers across the huge black-marble table at the silver-eyed wizard lounging opposite her. Just exactly how he managed to lounge in that rigid, high-backed boardroom chair was quite beyond her. It was _obscene_.

Infuriatingly, he was gazing at a place just above and beyond her shoulder, with the smuggest, smirkiest smile curving his oh-so-provoking mouth.

 _No way, he is NOT getting away with this!_ she thought irately.

"MALFOY!" she barked at him, "I WANT A WORD WITH YOU!"

He made a pointed display of looking around—everywhere except directly in front of him—as if searching for the person to whom the words belonged. Finally catching her eye, he gestured to himself with a surprised expression, as if to say, "...Moi?"

She sprang up from her chair, sending it crashing backward, and began to stalk her way around the table towards him, shaking, literally shaking, with rage. The complacent gleam in his eyes was just about enough to make her hex him right in front of the currently-cape-donning Chairman.

Lucius swivelled just as she reached him, his knees deliberately colliding with her legs. "You wanted me, my dear?" he said. The "wanted" was bracketed with the slightest of pauses, just enough to discompose and further enrage her.

"Don't you dare 'my dear' ME!" she hiss-whispered at him, conscious despite herself that, with her standing and him lounging, they were at equal heights. "We had an agreement!"

"Goodnight, Miss Granger!" the Chairman interrupted cheerfully at that very inopportune moment.

It was a painful struggle to recompose her features into a pleasant smile. "Goodnight, Mr. Barrowland," she replied sweetly, almost imploding with annoyance at Lucius's wickedly mocking expression.

"Enjoy your weekend, won't you?"

 _Oh for fu—_ "You too, Mr. Barrowland."

"Don't let sly old Malfoy detain you too long."

 _I'm the only one who'll be doing any_ detaining _around here._ "I won't, Mr. Barrowland."

"He has a way of monopolizing pretty young ladies."

 _JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE BARROWLAND, YOU OLD SOD._ "Don't worry, Mr. Barrowland. Goodbye, Mr. Barrowland."

"Goodbye, Granger—Malfoy, old boy—" He made a parting salute and the door swept shut. At last, they were alone.

Hermione rounded on Lucius immediately, flicking out her wand and pressing it into his cravatted sternum. _Who the hell wears a lacy cravat to work anyway?_ she thought wildly. _Who even wears a lacy cravat, ever?_ "We. Had. An. Agreement!"

Lucius made a faint, bored sigh. "...How you do go on, Miss Granger."

"Go on? GO ON? I've only just STARTED with you, you wandless prick!"

His smile was slow and loitered on the outskirts of dangerous. "Now, now, we mustn't call names."

"You promised —"

"I _promised_ nothing, my dear. You made me one offer. I was tendered a better one."

She gritted her teeth. " _What_ better offer? By whom?"

He brought up his hand to brush her wand aside, but with a determined thrust, she dug it deeper into the frothy layers of fabric. He looked vaguely amused. "Really, my girl, you should learn to control your temper. Nobody likes a moody mud—"

She whipped her wand up to his face. "Say it, Malfoy," she snarled, twisting the end into his pale cheek. " _I dare you_."

Again, that faintly menacing smile. It did things to her insides. And, apparently, her outsides, because her hand was shaking and her face flushing to her hairline. But she wasn't going to let him sexy his way out of this. Not a chance. Just because he'd bested her in the _bed_ room once—well, okay, twice—didn't mean she was going to let him bully her in the _board_ room.

His eyes dropped from her face to somewhere around where her chest would be if it weren't obscured by thick, grey material. "Still wear nylon blouses under that hideous tent, Miss Granger?"

She nearly choked. The truth was, no, she didn't. Ever since _that_ day, she had started to wear rather nice, a-little-too-expensive-for-her-budget clothes under her robes, on the off-chance she'd have them ripped off her again. By him.

But, of course, right now, she'd rather die than admit that.

"Shut up, Malfoy," she snapped. "In case you hadn't noticed, _I'm_ the one holding the wand right now."

"And just what do you intend to _do_ with said wand, Miss Granger?"

"Actually, I'm _considering_ sticking it up your—"

"Miss Granger! Language!" Lucius admonished her with a disapproving sneer. "So unbecoming in a—I was going to say _lady_ , but you're hardly that, are you, my dear?"

It took every particle of self-control not to rise to his taunt. "Just tell me _who_ you double-crossed me with, Malfoy," she growled. "I want the truth!"

"Lower your weapon and perhaps I may oblige you with it."

After a moment of scowling indecision, she complied.

In an instant, he was up, and _she_ was the one sprawled back in a chair with a wand pressed into her cheek. Her own wand clattered to the floor some distance away. She gazed up in total shock, her mouth opening and shutting like a fish. "How did you get that?" she managed at last. "I mean—how did you get it into the Ministry? You're not _allowed_ —"

"Wrong as usual, Miss Granger. I'm very much allowed." Lucius flourished the wand like a fencing sword—a lightning-fast _swish-swish—_ which ended in the point poking underneath her chin, forcing it upwards. "I was granted special dispensation this very morning."

She gasped. " _That_ was it, wasn't it?  _That_ was the "better offer" you received! But—but—but THAT'S BRIBERY!"

"And what you offered me _wasn't?_ "

Hermione sputtered in utter outrage—outrage, and something that felt rather inconveniently close to... guilt. "That was different! I only _offered_ —"

"Offered to bribe me," he cut in suavely.

"But—it was right—necessary—it was for a _good cause—_ "

"Keep going, Granger, you're doing _so_ well."

She glared up at him. "After everything I did to get you elected..."

"Oh, spare me the lecture. You did what you had to do, to cover your...er, _tracks_." His glinting eyes told her he was thinking of a very different word. "It was a business transaction, no more. I owe you nothing, least of all my gratitude."

"I trusted you!"

"How very foolish."

He was looking at her with that maddening smirk again, and Hermione realized that certain parts of her—parts that weren't directly involved in hating him—were getting distinctly warm and wet and tingly.

 _Don't you dare!_ she scolded herself. _You are NOT going to get all melty over that smile. He's a deceiving, lying bastard, no matter how big his—oh, mffgod no—stop it, Mind!_

She tried desperately to quash a barrage of suddenly arising images, but they immediately began to snowball, strobing one after another—and what was worse, she had the feeling Lucius knew _exactly_ what was going on inside her head, and was enjoying her turmoil immensely.

He stepped back, keeping his wand trained on her, and stationed himself against the marble table, one booted foot resting on the low rung of her chair between her legs. "Actually, I'm glad you initiated this little consultation. I have my own proposition to put to you."

Her chest heaved. "As if I would do ANYTHING for you, after that dirty trick you pulled!"

"I'm convinced you _would_ do anything... given the proper incentive." One eyebrow raised suggestively. He lifted his wand away from her and cast some perfunctory charms, locking the door and sound-proofing the room.

Hermione felt herself quivering at the implications. She might be mad at him, but oooh, he drove her body berserk. Why did he have to be so damned... _hot?_ Even that ridiculously foppish cravat couldn't diminish his sheer, overwhelming, dominating _sexuality_. On another man, long blond hair would look feminine, or just plain wrong. On him, it was...ugh, just...luscious. Everything about him seemed designed to conquer, to _vanquish_. His powerful frame, his handsome face, his indomitable arrogance. Not to mention his...

A good forty-five percent of her was ready to just let him conquer her all over again. Just kick her heels back and let him win. Losing to Lucius was, after all, a decidedly pleasurable experience.

But the bigger part of her—the part that centered around spirit, pride and self-worth—desperately wanted to claw back the power he had so casually, yet so completely confiscated from her.

She wanted things to go _her_ way, for once.

The cogs in her head that had been clogging up with fascinating anatomical visualizations suddenly began to lurch back into gear. ...His arrogance and conceit were so unbounded, so _absolute_ , he really believed he had her in the palm of his hand ( _gulp_ , remembering that hand). But maybe, just maybe, she could use it against him... _she_ could use _him_. Show him who was _really_ Boss of the Boardroom. And have a very nice time in the process.

She let her mouth relax from the severe line she had set it in, and her body followed suit, everything softening, arching, and swelling, pupils dilating, breath deepening. It wasn't at all difficult to manifest arousal. It wasn't like she had to pretend. " _What_ do you think you're doing?" she demanded breathlessly. "If you think I'm going to let you put your hands on me again, you are very much mistaken." She widened her eyes and fluttered her eyelashes in her best "defenseless doe" impression.

Lucius's reaction was tangible, and just the teensiest bit frightening.

If she was going for "doe" he was going for "big, bad wolf." His whole body stiffened (his _whole_ body?) and there was a new glint in his eye bespeaking extremely predatorial predilections.

Hooking his boot-toe under the rung, he dragged her chair towards him, so she was forced into an adjacent position, rather interestingly close to his hips. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on his face, simply to avoid staring directly at his crotch. Which she longed to do.

_Just a peek? Just to see if it's bulging? - NO! Pull yourself together, Hermione Jean Granger! And stop licking your lips!_

"I am rarely mistaken about anything," he murmured silkily. "However, _that_ is an issue we will address later on in tonight's agenda."

"You don't seriously think I would help you, after your _treachery_ today?"

He changed position slightly, trapping her legs between his. "Why don't we wait and see how persuasive I can be?"

Hermione swallowed drily. She had no doubts as to his powers of persuasion. None whatsoever. "...What is this so-called proposition?" she asked a little unsteadily.

His smile was rather victorious. _A little premature for triumph, Malfoy,_ she thought. _But you just go right ahead and gloat, you arrogant arse._

"Well, my dear," he said, "it has come to my notice that our illustrious Chairman has rather a … soft spot for you, shall we say."

"So?"

" _So_ I should like you to exert your influence with him. I need his permission to apply for a position with the Foreign Service Financial Administrator Division."

She frowned. "I hadn't heard of any vacant positions —"

"I do not require a running commentary from you, Miss Granger. I merely require your cooperation in the matter."

Hermione pursed her lips. "And what do I get out of it, _may_ I ask?"

"A repeal of today's vote and the resubmission of your precious Anti-House-Elf-Smuggling draft bill."

She squinted at him suspiciously. "And just _how_ would you manage that?"

"That is not your business."

"It is my business if I _don't believe you_."

Now it was his eyes that narrowed. "I am willing to initiate an Oath."

Outwardly, Hermione remained glaring and skeptical. Inwardly, she was singing. "Even so," she said snippily, "I don't think it makes up for your earlier betrayal."

She saw his jaw clench at her stubbornness. He stepped forward, braced his arms on each side of her and leaned closely in. She couldn't quite help flinching as he brought one hand up to lightly trace a line across her throat. His scent was dizzying, and his mouth was so irresistibly close, she had the strongest impulse to close her eyes, tilt her head, and press her lips to his... but she forced herself to remain cool and composed.

"Miss Granger..." Lucius breathed enticingly into her ear, sending goosebumps in every direction. "...Tell me...just what _will_ make up for it?"

She literally didn't trust herself to reply.

Happily, he was already taking the initiative: his hands were slowly sliding up her legs, pushing away her heavy robe—up, up—gathering her skirt along with it—up, up—tugging her hips forward so she fell back into the chair—until—

"Errdjjzz!" She invented a whole new word as his fingers connected with her knickers. _Well, at least they're expensive knickers this time,_ she thought. Then she felt a pang of regret for the expense as he snapped the seams.

She wriggled, suddenly feeling too explicitly exposed to his gaze, but he dug his fingers into her hips and held her still. He dropped lower, spreading her thighs with his wide shoulders, and suddenly Hermione wasn't at all sure quite _what_ was happening. She began to panic. Surely he wasn't going to—he wouldn't— _would_ he? Oh, god, Merlin, no, yes, please, please, _would_ he?

He would.

Hermione invented a second new word, and this time it came out as a small, strangled scream. "Aahhnnggff!"

The first long, languid lick made her almost faint. It went the entire length of her, from her hot core to her sensitive nub, making her whole body jump and twitch. It was too, too much to bear, and again she tried to futilely twist away. But he was strong and dominant, and just kept on, and on, and ON until she was a gibbering puddle of helpless weakness.

She could barely believe it was really happening. Lucius Malfoy, supremest of the supremacists, orally pleasuring a muggle-born? She could almost see the headline. "Malfoy Goes Down On Mudblood!" Could it be real? Could it?

His licks turned into hot, open-mouthed kisses, pressing compellingly into her, his tongue now flickering in and out, driving her almost insane. She had fallen headlong into a state of exquisite hyper-perception. She could feel everything down to the faint scratchiness of his five-o-clock shadow on the skin of her thighs, his tickling breath—even the vibrations of the low, animal growls in his throat.

She had never experienced this before, she'd always been too shy to ask, and it had never been offered...but she had imagined it plenty of times, and— _Morgana's mantlepiece!—_ it was _all_ she'd imagined and so... _so_ much more.

She was tingling, throbbing, she was dissolving, liquifying, oh god, she was going to _die..._

Exactly how many more words she made up she wasn't sure, but she supposed it was quite a few. At some point she discovered herself in a very unlikely position with her legs over his broad shoulders, her ankles clamped around his neck, crying out in total, delirious abandon.

With every deep stroke and lapping flick of his tongue, he was winding her tighter and tighter, coiling her up like a spring, until finally—something—just—snapped —

"OH GOD, LUCIUS!" She was shuddering and convulsing, her hands clutched in his silky hair, pressing herself desperately up to him, climaxing higher and harder than she ever, _ever_ had before... "YES, YES, OH FUCK, YES!" ...And then she was tumbling downwards, the world was see-sawing around her, and she had to close her eyes or risk losing herself to the looming faintness that threatened to overwhelm her.

Barely able to move, she was only half aware of Lucius detangling her limbs and draping her over the chair. When she opened her eyes again, he was taking out a handkerchief from his pocket, and, quite unflappably, commencing to wipe his mouth and chin, as if he had just finished a delectable banquet. She fought the urge to giggle. Really, she still couldn't quite believe what had just happened.

Lucius sauntered over to the Chairman's oversized chair and casually assumed it, watching her with _the_ most self-satisfied, gloating expression on his face as she pulled herself upright, straightened her skirt and made a half-hearted attempt at taming her hair.

At length, he murmured, "So... are you sufficiently _persuaded_ , you wanton little witch? Do you accept my terms?"

Sublimely dizzy and quivering uncontrollably, Hermione made a sigh of contented capitulation. "Alright, I accept," she said. "Make your vow, Malfoy."

Through veiled lashes, she watched as Lucius, not even troubling himself to sit up straight, performed the incantation and sealed it with a casual flick of his wand. "Now your turn, Miss Granger," he said.

She Accio'd her wand with a display of trembling meekness. As soon as her fingers curled around the smooth wood she pointed it at him and calmly said, "Expelliarmus, Incarcerous, Divestio, Silencio."

If he had looked nice kneeling between her legs, he looked even nicer now, completely naked, mute, and bound to the chair with ropes, like an oversized present. This thought gave her another idea, and she added, "Lemiscus." She sniggered as a huge, red, satin bow appeared around his rippling bare torso.

The expression on his face was priceless, absolutely priceless. He had never looked so furious.

"Think you can always have your cauldron cake and eat it too, don't you Malfoy?" she said sweetly, unclasping her "hideous tent" and discarding it on the ground in a heap. "Well, this time _I'm_ the one in charge. And after today's debacle, there is _no way in HELL_ I'm helping you worm your way into that Financial Administrator position. _You_ , on the other hand, have already _made_ your oath to me, so—if you value that pretty face as much as I _think_ you do—I guess you don't have much choice in the matter."

His silver eyes darkened to a glinting, stormy granite. _"Mudblood bitch,"_ he mouthed voicelessly at her, through teeth bared like fangs.

She sashayed towards him, shedding layers of clothes as she went, _high_ on the power she now wielded over him "You know, I like this taciturn, docile new you." She reached out and straightened the bow, patting the voluminous loops of satin against his chest. "It is a vast improvement."

He jerked violently forward, his muscles straining against his bonds, making her jump back a bit. "Ah, ah, ah," she waggled a finger at him mockingly. "You should really learn to control your temper. Nobody likes a moody Malfoy."

She reached behind her and unhooked the catch on her bra, peeling it off and throwing it mockingly at his face. She smirked at the automatic lustful glaze in his eyes, the dilation of his black pupil...not to mention his...

"Lucky for _you_ Lucius," she said, dropping to her knees before him, her eyes fixed on his enormous, enticingly rigid member, "A _lady_ never leaves a gentleman unsatisfied..."


	5. How To Tame Your Malfoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find any plot amongst the smut, you're doing better than I am!  
> Warning: lots of sex and inappropriate use of chocolate.

Hermione leaned in teasingly towards Lucius's magnificent member. She could _feel_ the throbbing heat of him on her cheek, though she wasn't actually touching him.

Lucius had stopped struggling against his bonds and was now gazing down at her like a dog staring avidly at a biscuit.

She wondered how long she should torment him. He _deserved_ to be left high and dry, the double-dealing scumbag. ...But that would require sacrificing her _own_ pleasure, and right now Hermione was in the mood for complete self-indulgence.

She licked her lips slowly and felt Lucius's responding quiver. He was literally twitching, reacting to every little skin-brushing sigh, every tickling swish of her hair, every inhaling breath as she soaked up his heady, masculine scent...

Oh, how she wanted to taste him. But tormenting him was just... so... _wonderful_.

 _I want him begging for me_ , she thought, _like he made me beg for him._

Again she brought her lips close to the engorged head, coming within mere millimeters of contact. If he hadn't been Silencio'd he would have groaned. Every muscle in his body was rigid and straining with anticipation.

Just to reeeeaally wind him up, she Accio'd a bright scarlet lipstick from an outer pocket of her satchel. " _Do_ excuse me _one_ moment, Mr. Malfoy," she said. She drew a little back and applied a slick coat of the waxy colour. "It's just that I'd really like to make a good... _impression_ on you." She smirked up at him impishly.

Lucius swallowed with difficulty. She knew they were both picturing how the vivid hue would look smeared all over his thick, jutting appendage. She was _fairly_ sure he had reached the same conclusion as she had: it would look very nice. Very nice indeed.

He made a choking noise as she pressed her mouth near the base of his rigid shaft and began to slowly, smudgily kiss her way upwards. As she neared the top she could see his large hands ball into impatient fists ( _huh, Divestio doesn't remove jewelry_ , she thought, catching a glint of his sparkling rings— _interesting_ ). If he had been free of his bonds, he would certainly have grabbed her hair and brought the issue to a head.

 _Hehehe, "...to a head..."_ thought Hermione, with a snicker.

She was so pleased with the double-entendre she made the magnanimous decision to enclose him fully in her mouth.

His breath exploded in a ragged gasp.

She smiled—well, tried to—at the thought of him, Sir Manipulative Arrogance Personified, reduced to nothing more than a quivering, tied-up, tasty treat for her to enjoy at her complete, selfish leisure. And, ohhhh, he was tasty, alright. Delicious.

 _I was right about the lipstick_ , she thought as she worked her way up and down the length of him, dragging her lips and flicking her tongue across his taut, hot smoothness, _it DEFINITELY looks nice on him._ She squirmed happily. How she loved being right. Hermione peeked up at Lucius through her tousled hair. His eyes were riveted on her, glazed and fervent. His usually-so-pale face was flushed and covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and a vein in his temple visibly throbbed. She made some experimental swirls with her tongue and watched with satisfaction the corresponding tightening of his jaw muscles.

Suddenly there was a hard tug on her hair as one of his hands managed to catch and twine a fistful. Holding her firmly in place, his hips lifted off the chair, and he began to propel himself deeply to the back of her throat, choking her with his unexpected intrusion.

 _Oh no, you don't!_ she thought furiously. She dug her nails into his hand, and with some difficulty managed to extract herself from his grasp, jerking herself out of reach.

Gasping, she scowled up at Lucius and was thoroughly annoyed to see a wolfish smile curving his mouth, in a tacit declaration of momentary triumph over the proceedings.

 _Damn it,_ she thought furiously. _He's NOT going to win this time!_

She was determined to reassert her control...but how?

 _Well, I am a witch and a very good one at that_. _Maybe it's time to put some interesting theories to the test._

Taking a steadying breath, she regained her composure and picked up her wand. Deliberately, she pointed it at Lucius's most sensitive area and was gratified to see his expression lose some of its smirking arrogance. His eyes narrowed with a mixture of suspicion and alarm.

"I don't think you quite understand, _Malfoy_ ," Hermione said with taunting sweetness. "We're doing things my way, or not at all.—Unless you have something to _say_ to the contrary?" She tilted her head to one side as if waiting for him to answer. He was glaring back at her now, his lips moving in what she could only suppose was a silent torrent of threats and invectives. "...I didn't think so," she replied to his non-speech. "Now..."

She Accio'd her satchel and rifled through it until she found what she was looking for...a bar of Honeydukes Finest French Dark Chocolate. Tearing off the gold foil-wrap, she assumed a conversational tone and once more addressed the bound-up wizard. "You might want to stay very...very...still... because I've only ever tried this once with strawberries...but I _guess_ the principle should apply..."

She made a complex looping gesture with her wand. "Liquios!" she said, and the slab instantly turned into a floating pool of melted chocolate. Then she directed her wand back at Lucius. "Operiet Cum Scelerisque!" she exclaimed. "—Ha! Yes!" She clapped her hands gleefully, ignoring Lucius's outraged growls. Then, "Ooooh, yummmm."

His huge member was now coated with the glossy, rich layer of liquid chocolate.

She resumed her position between his knees. "Listen to me carefully, Malfoy," she said warningly. "If you so much as move a muscle, I will _leave_ you here for Barrowland to find you on Monday morning. You could petition him _in person_ for that Financial Administrator position you're after _—_ right after you explain why you're tied naked to his chair. Got it?" She raised an eyebrow.

Lucius's expression was a mix of anger, amusement and darkly-resentful desire. He slanted his own eyebrow back at her, then gave a curt nod.

"Good."

She decided to approach the task methodically, in long licks from the base upwards. She couldn't help making little noises of pleasure...it was just so decadent and delicious and so, so, unbelievably _sexy..._ the hot tingling between her legs was getting more and more intense...spatters and droplets spilled down on her chin and chest as she lapped happily away at his length and around his girth. She was making quite a mess, but she couldn't care less. It was totally worth it.

Lucius was being a lamb. Not that his expression was very lamb-like—quite the reverse—but he was holding absolutely still, only twitching when her tongue met a particularly sensitive spot (which _was_ rather frequently). She could sense him getting closer and closer to the brink, but she made absolutely sure not to tip him over it, varying the pressure and rhythm of her licks to keep him slightly off-kilter.

It didn't take very long for Hermione to polish off the whole delectable lot. She'd never had much self-control around chocolate, and presented like _this_ —well, she could hardly blame herself.

 _Note-to-self,_ she thought: _always keep a supply of milk, dark and bitter slabs of chocolate in my satchel from now on._ _Oh, and maybe some cherry liqueurs._

Finally, she sat back with a contented sigh, lazily using her wand to give herself and her serving platter ( _smirk)_ a proper clear-down.

She could almost— _almost_ —feel sorry for Lucius.

He was obviously beyond frustrated, his muscles were bunched and taut, causing the threads of his veins and arteries to stand out along his strong arms. His breathing was fast and hard, and his expression... A quiver stole over her, and her stomach did a nervous little flip-flop. She wondered what would happen if she were to release him now. From the stormy look in his slate-silver eyes, she imagined the repercussions could be rather...painful. Nope, not a good idea.

She stood up and positioned herself so one leg was between his, the other on the outside of his thigh.

Unable to resist, she reached over and began to run her hands through his beautiful, silken hair, combing it back from his temples with her fingers. At this, he looked positively aggrieved, and she didn't need Occlumency to hear him thinking, "Don't. Touch. The. Hair." _He really is a vain bastard,_ she thought tenderly, breathing in the wafting scent of his expensive shampoo.

Then, bunching a fistful at his nape, she tilted his head back and pressed her mouth against his lips in a long, leisurely kiss. Well, it _began_ leisurely, but then their tongues started twisting, then wrestling, then _battling_ , in a kind of war for dominance and it seemed it wasn't one Lucius intended to let her win. He thrust aggressively into her mouth, his teeth scraping her lips roughly and nipping at her tongue as if to punish her for his current helplessness and ignominy.

Hermione drew away first, gasping and a little dizzy. She had kind-of _melted_ onto him, her soft body squelched stickily against his hard one. She could feel his thickly-muscled thigh pressing pleasurably up against her tingling seam—and there was another, more promising hardness nudging into her hip...

She wriggled until she was straddling him properly, her knees on each side of him, then she lowered her hips until she felt him sliding against her hot, damp core.

Teeth clenched with the effort of self-restraint, Hermione flung at him the same words he had taunted her with on their first encounter. "What do you say, _Malfoy_?"

His silver gaze mocked her, his lips curling with derision. She could see it in his eyes—he _knew_ how much she wanted him, _needed_ him, inside her. "Please," he mouthed, although the accompanying expression was much closer to " _Please: help yourself,"_ than _"Please, I beg you."_

"Good enough," she growled, because the feeling of him bulging against her was too, too much to bear.

Hands gripping his wide shoulders, feet hooking around his thighs, she locked her eyes with his and oh-so-slowly sank down upon him... _Oh—gods, yes—that filling, stretching—that hard hotness—nnnnngggg!—_ She was already panting and gasping, because impaling herself without any assistance from him wasn't such an easy task, no matter how ready she was... _Merlin, but he feels so good, so gooood, sssssoooo big..._

Lucius had relaxed as if he had decided to simply sit back and enjoy the show. His gaze had dropped to rest on her mouth, out of which was issuing all manner of whimpers and mewling noises. She couldn't help it, and she wasn't about to try.

For a moment she settled, exulting in the fullness, the _completeness_ she felt, with him buried so deeply inside her...but then an exigent need for _friction_ overtook her, and she began to move up—and up—then down again—up and down—slowly at first, then, as she found her rhythm and confidence, faster and faster—and faster still—until she was riding him for all she was worth.— _Sweet!—Elysium's!—Edible!—Nasturtiums!—_ She bounced frantically, gripping onto the satin bow for extra purchase, her body arching back in complete abandon,— _Feels—So!—Bloody!—Good!_

His whole frame was so much larger than hers that even at this angle, even with her astride him, she was barely higher than he. She leaned in and pressed her lips against his, and this time there was no war—only a hot, deep, fierce twining of tongues and melding of bodies, which was carrying her closer and closer to a precipice of ultimate pleasure...she could feel the answering tension in his muscles, something urgent building between them...

"Ah—ah—oh—yes—yes!" she cried out, as he began to thrust upwards, loose enough within his restraints to slam up into her with short, brutal jerks. She threw her head back and her hands dropped down behind her to cling onto his thighs, bracing herself as she met his every thrust - "Ah—god—yes, Luciusssss!—Yes!"

With a final downwards surge and upwards thrust, they came together in a shuddering, almost _violent_ climax, Hermione's wild cries drowning out Lucius's ragged, throaty growls. Once again she felt his spend, spurting hot and thick inside her, fusing them even more completely together, and it made her delirious with the sense of deep satiation and completion.

She fell against him, panting, her head resting limply against his shoulder. Her heartbeat was racing at a million miles, and beneath it, she could feel Lucius's stronger, slower one, pounding through her entire body, like some vital, primal drumbeat.

Finally, Hermione peeled herself of Lucius and regretfully clambered off him.

"There," she said in a rather wobbly voice, "let that be a lesson to you."

He gave her a quizzical smirk, and it suddenly occurred to her that her "lesson" had been somewhat closer to a reward than a punishment.

Ah, well, she thought. At least she'd held the reins for once.

With a few deft swishes of her wand, Hermione cleaned herself up, then she began to gather her scattered clothes.

As she dressed she couldn't resist the temptation to taunt him one last time. "You know, Malfoy," she said as she pulled on her underwear, "I really appreciate your offer of assistance with my draft bill." One sock then the other. "It was so _considerate_ of you to _volunteer_ your co-operation." Half-slip and skirt. "And without asking _anything_ in return!" Blouse with a myriad of fiddly buttons. "Unexpectedly... gallant. " Shoes, and last of all, her robe. "Quite out of character..."

Hermione picked up her satchel and wand, and then moved over to the door, unlocking it with a brief murmur and wand-flick. Making sure the way was clear for a quick getaway, she turned back to the still-naked-and-bound-up wizard and let her gaze wander slowly over him one last time, lingering fondly on certain favourite parts. Lucius stared steadily back at her, his eyes steely and glinting dangerously.

With a sigh, she murmured, "Finite Incantanti," then watched as the ribbon and ropes disappeared, and Lucius flexed his arms and rubbed his neck in evident relief.

"See you on Monday for the recount, Malfoy," she risked a parting shot.

She wondered if he would Accio his wand, but he merely smiled at her, though it was more of a snarl than a smile. "I look forward to our collaboration," he said suavely.

Hermione was in the process of shutting the door behind her when she heard him address her once more. "Oh, and Miss Granger?" Lucius's voice was a masterclass of silken menace as she paused in the doorway. "If I ever catch you alone, you'll be paying for this little slice of insolence. Clearly, you're in need of some stringent...discipline."

A hot and cold shiver ran over her whole body at his words.

She slammed the door shut and hurried away, her heart racing like a rabbit's.


	6. Pain And Pleasure In Equal Measure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a quick word of WARNING. This chapter contains a little bit of non-con discipline, although I've kept it pretty light and you could argue it is no worse than what Hermione did to Lucius in the last chapter. I'm definitely NOT intending to turn this fic into a BDSM training-manual. It's just a one-off naughty bit of fun, and isn't going to get any darker or heavier. But if it isn't your thing, I suggest you skip this chapter.  
> Hope you all enjoy.

True to his word, the following week Lucius arranged a recount and swung it in her favour. Not that he had any choice in the matter, of course.

She had to admire his composure and suavity, under the circumstances. She could not detect even the faintest trace of chagrin or embarrassment in his manner towards her—if anything he was even more mockingly polite, more sneeringly high-handed than usual. As if their last encounter had ended in _his_ favour, not hers.

The man was made of ice.

A face-meltingly hot variety of ice.

And, much to her annoyance, Hermione found herself playing directly into those high hands, blushing and stammering her responses like a silly schoolgirl when his drawling voice addressed her from across the boardroom. She had to keep dropping her eyes away from his coolly-levelled gaze, feeling a little too much like a rabbit pinned to a target.

She barely registered the moment when Mr. Barrowland finally declared the motion "Approved." She was too busy trying to look unperturbed by Lucius's deriding half-smile. And failing dismally.

 _What in Hades's handbasket is wrong with me?_ she thought irritably. She had spent six whole months trying to get the damned bill passed, and now, instead of being filled with victorious elation, she could only seem to think about being filled with...well... _Lucius._ It certainly didn't help that every time she looked at Barrowland sitting gravely in his oversized Chairman's seat, she kept experiencing explicit flashbacks of what had taken place upon it so recently.

Her stomach fluttered as she reminisced on the minutiae of their last encounter...straddling Lucius's muscular thighs, arching against his solid chest, sinking down onto his... _nnnngff,_ if only she could get him to forget about retribution, maybe they could just...

She risked a peek at Lucius. Again, she was met by his skewering stare—again, she dropped her eyes. She couldn't rid her mind of his parting "promise". ' _"You'll be paying for this little slice of insolence...'_ She shivered. What exactly did that entail? And what had he meant by "stringent discipline"?

 _Shit,_ she thought, _he really is furious with me. I'd definitely better_ _keep out of his way for a while_. She had to remind herself that, no matter how much pleasure she derived from their heated, screwed-up relations, his essentials had not changed. He was still a hardened supremacist with a vindictive streak and a deeply personal grudge against her.

And she certainly didn't want someone like _that_ mixing up "discipline" with "punishment".

* * *

...

Hermione spent the next two weeks doing her best to avoid Lucius.

It wasn't easy, given that _he_ seemed just as determined to manoeuvre himself into her company as much as possible. He obviously relished her discomfiture and skittishness in his presence. He was so exaggeratedly, disingenuously "helpful"—dispensing patronizing advice and making irritating recommendations, always looming a little too closely over her, smiling a little too wolfishly.

Clearly, he was _not_ going to forget or forgive her treatment of him, and she was beginning to regret the rashness of her actions. It felt a bit like being cornered by a very dangerous Hippogriff whose tail she had tweaked. But a part of her revelled in her triumph over him, however fleeting. Though she didn't dare to gloat about it to his face, she couldn't help being a little gleeful that she had finally managed to turn the tables on him. ... _Ramifications be damned,_ she thought. It had been simply _wonderful_ to put that blond bastard in his place for once.

Perhaps it was time to get him expelled from the Board. That would be _one_ way to wriggle out of his retribution...

She sneaked a veiled glance over at him. Lucius was standing with his back to her, apparently inflicting one of the newer Board members with a sample of his specialty brand of sarcasm and intimidation. She felt sorry for the younger wizard: he had that frozen, ingratiating smile on his face that clearly bespoke his awe and terror of his interlocutor. _Inquisitor, rather,_ thought Hermione snarkily.

The more she thought about it, the better the idea of immediate expulsion seemed. Lucius had been wrangling himself into a dangerously powerful position, and she didn't like it one bit. He already had his wand back, his magic-restrictions reduced, and a foot in the door to the Treasury coffers. He had half the delegates in his pocket and the other half under his thumb. Not to mention full access to the inside of her underwear. Exactly how had that happened? How had she let it happen?

And she just _knew_ he was up to no good.

She had been on his trail for months now, keeping an eye on which senior ministers he hobnobbed with, which establishments in Knocturn Alley he frequented, which Ministry sessions he attended and the ones he skipped. If it hadn't been for that one unfortunate incident with the Polyjuice...

Hermione eyed his briefcase suspiciously. She could just see it, resting beside his place at the conference table, partly cloaked by the robe folded neatly over the back of his chair.

If only she knew what he kept in there. Unlike most of the Board and cabinet members who filed their belongings in the Ministry lockers, Lucius took that briefcase everywhere he went—it seemed as much a part of him as that ridiculous cane he carried about. As much a part of him as his insufferable sneer.

She could almost guarantee there was incriminating evidence in there...

Swiftly, without even blinking, without even _thinking,_ she used her wand to draw the case towards her beneath the conference table until it rested by her feet.

"Gemino," she hissed, with a flick of her wand. A second briefcase appeared beside the first, an exact replica, right down to the subtly embossed Malfoy crest and silver hinges. _Haha! Too easy!_ She made the swap quickly, reaching down to shove the original case into her own charm-extended satchel and sending the replica sliding back under his seat. She cast a furtive look around her, feeling both guilty and triumphant. Nobody had seen the manoeuvre. And there was Lucius, his back still to her, none-the-wiser.

She had the sudden urge to go up to him and pull his hair. Instead, she contented herself with the knowledge that she would soon have him safely expelled, not just from the Board, but—if things went her way—from the Ministry itself.

* * *

…

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten o'clock. Hermione rubbed her eyes, yawning. Was it that late already? She sighed loudly. She might as well go to bed.

The briefcase was a wasted effort. There was nothing— _nothing_. Well, nothing bad. The scrolls were mostly meeting minutes and Ministry briefs. There were several large leather-bound files which looked promising but in fact only contained notes on the regulations pertaining to the Board's current proceedings. It was all so mundane and correct—she might have been looking at the contents of her _own_ satchel.

 _Damn him,_ she thought. _How does he always manage to come up smelling like roses?_

She began to roll up the scrolls and file the sheets of cartridge back into their folders.

And that's when she saw it. It was a slim file, a little smaller than the others, and instead of being handsomely bound in green leather, it was made of rather dog-eared cardboard, like the Manilla folders her parents used to have in their filing cabinets before everything went digital. How she had missed it before, she couldn't understand. She had been through the pile fifty times if she had been through it once.

And scribbled across the front in a bold, masculine script, were three words. HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER.

First, she felt shocked. Then numb. Then her ears went hot. The rest of her body followed suit soon after. Lucius kept a file on _her?_

 _Why, that sneaking, conniving, duplicitous SCUMBAG!_ she thought irately, her blood boiling. _Who the hell is HE to keep tabs on ME?_

Cheeks aflame with disbelief and outrage, Hermione snatched the folder up and wrenched open the cover.

Too late she realized it was a trap.

* * *

...

There was a disorienting sucking sensation as if she were being suddenly pulled backward by a huge magnet.

 _FUCK!...PORTKEY!_ She braced herself for a hard landing, but moments later she hit something both springy and firm, absorbing the impact of her fall. The momentum sent her into a tumbling roll, and she screamed as she fell off the edge of whatever had caught her and struck a much harder surface. Wildly she grappled for her wand, but she was too late: a soft drawling voice had already muttered, "Expelliarmus; Accio Wand," and she watched helplessly through the curtain of her tousled hair as the slim baton spun across the room and into the waiting hand of a very tall, very blond, very familiar figure.

She hauled herself up from the floor, shaken and furious, pushing back her hair and rubbing at various bruised parts of her. She saw she was in a grandly appointed bedchamber—just _whose_ , she had no doubt—and that it was a vast bed that had broken her fall before she had tumbled to the floor.

Lucius was lounging in a tall wingback chair, his booted legs casually crossed. He looked like he had returned from an evening soiree and was in a state of elegant _déshabillé_ ; he was wearing black formal trousers and a white piqué shirt open to the waist, its wing collar half-detached and the sleeves loosened at the wrists. Hermione gulped at the sight of his solid torso, remembering the hard warmth of it pressed against her bare skin...

He waved her wand mockingly at her as she scrambled to her feet. "Welcome, Miss Granger. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?—Don't answer that, my dear. We both know the answer is, 'your incurable penchant for interfering in other people's business.' ...Hmmm?"

"That was an illegal Portkey!" Hermione cried shrilly. "You're not allowed to do that!" `

"How remiss of me to forget the rules," Lucius drawled in a lazy monotone.

She snapped her mouth shut. Complaining about Lucius using an unregistered Portkey was like objecting to the sea being a bit drowny in places. Entirely pointless. "Give me my wand back, _Malfoy_."

"Come and take it from me, Miss Granger." He dangled it like a piece of bait between his thumb and index finger, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

Quick as a flash she cried, "Accio My Wand!"—but he was quicker, and with a flick of his wrist and a quietly muttered "Evanesco", the wand disappeared from sight.

"Damn it Malfoy, you're not al—"

"I'm not _allowed_ ," he cut in over her. "Really, my dear, once in a while you ought to—what's the muggle expression?—' _change the record'._ "

She glowered at him. "I don't know why you resorted to _deception_ to get me here," she said huffily. "An invitation would have sufficed."

A slow smile touched his mouth, and Hermione flushed self-consciously. They both knew _that_ was a complete lie. "If there is a case of deception," Lucius returned politely, " _you_ are the guilty party. If I may—just what were you hoping to discover among my private documents?"

"Anything to get you expelled off the Board," she snapped, because there was no point pretending otherwise. "We don't need your _poisonous,_ corrupting influence any longer."

"Touché," he said with a sarcastic sneer. "Please, spare my feelings. They're so easily wounded, you know."

Hermione grimaced at him. _Arrogant arse._ She began a cautious orbit of the room towards a huge oak door which stood promisingly ajar.

"Where do you think you're going, Miss Granger?"

"I'm not staying _here_."

"Perhaps you have forgotten we have a score to settle, little witch." His words were weightless, smooth as satin, but they sent prickles of alarm all over her body.

She edged still nearer to the door. "Don't tell me you're still angry about—about the other day."

"Not at all." Lucius's eyes glinted with amusement as he tracked her progress across the room. "I'm merely a wizard of my word. I made you a promise which I very much intend to keep."

"I release you from that obligation," she said quickly. "Just conjure my wand back, and I promise not to report this."

Lucius chuckled softly. "Oh, no...we all know what _your_ promises are worth. Besides, my wife is currently out of town and I could use a little...light diversion."

Hermione didn't wait to hear any more. She made a headlong dash for the door, but it slammed shut a split second before she reached it. She grabbed the brass handle and rattled it violently, but it was stuck fast. "Let me out of here Malfoy!" she snarled, whirling to face him. "I'm not in the mood for your stupid mind games."

"How fortunate, then, that it isn't your _fascinating_ mind I intend to play with." He left his chair and began to advance towards her with measured, unhurried steps.

Her heart started thudding in earnest. "I don't know what you're so mad at _me_ for," she said, silently cursing her unsteady voice. "It's not like you didn't enjoy it."

"On the contrary, I enjoyed it immensely," he said, each step clicking forbiddingly on the polished flooring. "But that is not the point. Certain liberties warrant certain repercussions. Quite simply, it is a matter of principle."

Hermione skittered away from the door, but there was nowhere to run except back towards the enormous bed. "You— _principles—_ ha! As if you have any!"

"You would be surprised, Miss Granger."

"I would be. I would _die_ of surprise."

She ducked the first volley of hexes, dashing behind one of the massive oak bedposts, then she dove down to scrabble under the bed as he launched another round at her. She screeched as strong fingers clamped around her ankle and Lucius dragged her back out again. Hermione resisted him furiously, clawing and twisting like an enraged cat, but wandless as she was, there was no escaping him.

Lucius hauled her to the end of the bed and forced her over it, pushing her roughly face-down into the quilt and Incarcerousing each wrist to a respective bedpost. "Now, my little savage," he snarled in her ear when he had tightly secured her, "it's time you learned some respect for your betters."

"I _do_ respect my betters, _Malfoy_ ," she hissed back at him, "it's just I don't count _you_ among them."

His weight lifted off her, and she felt his large hands skim over her hips. She gasped as she felt him slide her skirt up around her waist and then very slowly, very deliberately roll her knickers down to her knees. Automatically, reflexivel, she felt her back arching and her thighs spreading in response, craving his touch. Perhaps this wasn't going to be so bad after all—perhaps he was simply going to give her "a good seeing to"—perhaps—perhaps—

Lucius moved to one side of the bed and sat down on the edge of it. She found herself staring into his bare torso, which, she had to admit, was a far-from-unpleasant sight. She watched, transfixed, as he began very neatly to fold his cuffs up his forearms. "Miss Granger, when I was at school—"

"A hundred years ago," she snapped childishly at him.

Lucius's mouth curled. "Nearly, miss Granger, nearly..." His cuffs now rolled to his elbows, Lucius reached up to detach and discard his wing-collar. "When I was at school, breaches of conduct were corrected in a rather more...expedient way than they are today."

Hermione's eyes widened as Lucius Accio'd his silver-headed cane and incanted a transfiguration spell and passed his hand over it. There was a swirl of light and the thick baton began to reduce in width, getting slimmer and whippier, until it resembled something worryingly akin to caning switch.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, wriggling helplessly in her restraints. "Don't you dare come near me with that!"

"Six of the best, I believe it was called then," Lucius overrode he, "—and it has occurred to me many times over the ensuing... _century,"_ (this with a wry smile) "that the youngsters of today would do very well, given a taste of the same." He touched the tip of his finger to the end of the switch, flexing it.

"This is illegal," Hermione gasped out. "This is _criminal_."

"Not if it is consensual."

"I don't consent!" she yelped, her heart hammering erratically. "I definitely DO NOT consent!"

"But you already _have_ , my dear. The moment you decided to strike the match and play with fire, was the moment you consented to getting—your—fingers—burnt." The last four words were drawled menacingly.

 _Shit shit shit—he really means it!_ she thought, riddled with panic. "A-alright—I'm sorry!" she stammered. "There, I said it! I'm sorry for hexing you. And I'm sorry about the Oath. Just untie me, _please_!"

His eyebrow slanted. "Miss Granger, do I strike you as a man of a forgiving, yielding temperament?"

"Yes?" she said hopefully.

Lucius clicked his tongue against his teeth and gave a very slight shake of his head.

She swallowed dryly at his icy expression. "I—I could help you with that Financial Administration position you wanted to apply for—"

"I have already secured Barrowland's support without your assistance, my dear," he replied, his eyes gleaming as her face fell with dismay. "Although your eagerness to abandon any pretension to integrity for my sake is most gratifying, I assure you."

She flushed scarlet. "You really are an _arsehole_ , aren't you, Lucius?" she snarled.

"Oh, touchy, touchy." He tapped the end of the switch on his knee, in a calculatedly casual way. "I wonder why you don't you direct your sanctimonious venom upon yourself, little hypocrite."

She went even redder, unable to refute his mocking words. She _was_ a hypocrite. But that didn't make him less of an arsehole.

She tried another tact. In a wheedling tone, which sounded terribly false and unconvincing (she had never been any good at wheedling) she said, "Lucius, can't we just...you know...I mean, I'd really like to just...um, to go to bed with you..."

"What a charming proposition. I may take you up on it after we've finished this lesson."

She nearly choked. "THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEAN YOU SON OF A—"

"Os Capistrum," Lucius interrupted suddenly, and the remainder of Hermione's sentence finished with a series of furious "MMMFFFF!"s, as a silken gag wrapped tightly over her lips. She tugged desperately against her bonds, wild with panic.

"Ah, much better," he said, leaning down to inspect his handiwork. He stroked her cheek gently, and even in her fright and fury, she couldn't ignore her body's tingling response to his touch. "How does your own tonic taste, my dear?" he murmured softly, almost tenderly. "Rather bitter, I should think?"

He stood up and moved behind her. She was in the process of working out from what angle she might be able to claw his face when she felt him reach between her legs and oh-so-lightly run his fingers along her exposed seam. Her whole body jumped at his unexpected touch. _Ooooh, oh yes!_ Maybe he _was_ only playing a game with her—maybe he wasn't intending to—

But then she felt him lightly positioning the end of the switch against the bare curve of her bottom as if aligning his aim. "Six of the best..." he drawled. "One for each of your five impudent hexes...and one for being an insolent, uppity little Mudblood know-all."

There was an audible _SWISH_ , followed by a loud _THWACK_.

"MMMFFFFFF!" Hermione screeched into her gag at the searing burn across her delicate flesh—but a second later Lucius's hand was between her legs again, his fingers countering the pain with the most exquisite of caressing touches... She hardly knew what to do with herself, the nasty sting was so thoroughly entwined with sudden pleasure, she found herself bucking helplessly against his hand...her whole body was pulsing and shuddering with diametrically opposed sensations, and she realized she was panting and gasping...mewling for more...

She whined with disappointment when his hand withdrew from her. Closing her eyes tightly, she waited for the next painful swat.

 _THWACK!_ The second blow brought tears to her eyes and forced another muffled cry from her lips, but this time she was already wriggling in anticipation, and when his fingers slid more deeply into her she was already on the brink of a teetering ecstasy... He was doing that thing again, that lovely trick where she was the violin and he was the player, his fingers moving with subtle dexterity up and down, in and out, and god—God, how hot and wet he was making her—how she wanted him to tumble her over into that beautiful void—

But he wasn't going to, not yet. Again his hand pulled away and she braced herself for a third hit.

It didn't come. After a few seconds, her lashes fluttered open, and she saw that Lucius had moved beside her and was gazing down at her, a hot flame lighting his silver eyes.

"How very appealing you are like this, Miss Granger," he murmured, winding a fistful of her curls with his left hand, tugging her head up to look at him. "So charmingly helpless." The slender switch, still held in his right fist, rapped rhythmically against the top of his boot, reminding Hermione of a tiger quietly lashing its tail. "So entirely at my mercy..." His thumb hooked under the silk obstructing her mouth, working it down past her lips. "How do you feel, my dear? Restrained so _befittingly_ before me."

"Go to hell," she gasped out, although his hypnotic voice and heady, expensive scent were making her quite giddy.

At this, he laughed softly. "Very well..." He replaced the gag over her mouth. "The lesson shall continue. ...A little harder now, I think."

So saying, he moved back behind her once more.

"MF, mmffff, mmf mffmff!" _("NO, please, not harder!")_ she squealed into the silk. But then— _CRACK!—SMACK!—_ he delivered two unsparing welts in quick succession, viciously biting into the tender flesh of her upper thighs, making her whole body jerk and flail like a marionette on strings.

But if the hits were harder and crueller than before, the ensuing caresses were softer and deeper, and soon her muffled yelps of protest became sensual moans of surrender. Somehow... _somehow_ she found that the pleasure didn't _negate_ the pain, but was actually _heightened_ by it—adding that same exquiste dimension she experienced when he roughly pounded her with his oversized member—forcing her to take the bitter with the sweet, the twinge with the bliss. That was the very nature of _him_ , light and dark, dazzling and devious, taking her from frightening depths to dizzying heights...

"Two more to go, Miss Granger," she heard Lucius say. She felt the end of the switch making a tickling trail up her inner thighs, delicately tracing the line of her sex, coming to rest on the roundest, softest part of her derrière. And suddenly she _wanted_ the next hit, she _wanted_ that burning sting...

_THWACK!_

FUCK! _YES!_ Her back arched and her body coursed with exquisite convulsions—for _this_ time there was no distinction between pain and pleasure—she didn't need his mitigating caresses—she was already shuddering with ecstacy—she was going to—going to _come_ —

_THWACK!_

"Nnnnnggggggg!" She issued a muffled wail as a tidal-wave of cresting pleasure finally broke over her. He cupped his hand around her, his palm pressed hard against her throbbing core, his fingers expertly stroking and rubbing her pulsating, parted seam. But it wasn't enough—she wanted him inside her now—oh, god, she felt as if she were on fire, and _he_ was only one who could quench the unbearable heat... She stared pleadingly over her shoulder at him.

As if reading her mind, Lucius bent over her, his body plastered heavily along hers. She could feel his rigid arousal through the expensive material of his trousers pressing urgently against her. "You're wet and wanting, little witch," he breathed into her ear. "But are you willing? Do you want me to fuck you?"

She knew she should refuse. She shouldn't keep doing this—it was dancing with the devil—fraternizing with the enemy. She _had_ to wean herself off him. His was a particularly addictive brand of poison, and she couldn't afford to get hooked.

 _Too late!_ said a voice in her head, but she quashed it defiantly. She could stop whenever she wanted. She could stop _now_.

Just to prove it, she shook her head in emphatic rejection.  _No.'_

Only it didn't come out right. It came out as an exceedingly eager nod. _Yes, oh, god yes, PLEASE!_

She whimpered at the delicious _'Clink, Whirr, Rustle_ ' of Lucius unbuckling, unzipping and lowering his trousers.

 _Damn it, Body,_ she scolded herself as her core clenched greedily around the torturously wonderful, throbbing intrusion of him sinking slowly and deliberately into her. _Why can't you listen to your Mind for once?_


	7. What A Tangled Web We Weave (When First We Practise To Deceive)

**Dear Ms. Granger,**

**Please find enclosed with this letter your invitation to the Ministry's annual Masquerade Ball & Auction, to be held at the Palladian Chambers on the 17th of September.**  
**This charity-focused event affords the Ministry an unparalleled opportunity to promote its public and media relations; accordingly, attendance is considered mandatory. Requests for exemptions must be submitted in writing to the Secretary and received no later than September 12th.**

**Kind regards,**

**Cyril B. Cholmondoly**  
**_Director of Communications, Public Relations & Event Coordination  
Ministry Of Magic_ **

_..._

Hermione stooped to retrieve a slip of paper that had fluttered to the floor. As she expected it was her invitation, requesting her presence "plus one" at the masquerade. She wrinkled her nose at the theme. "Famous Faces from Magical History." Wow, so original.

She dropped onto the sofa and uttered a morose sigh. "Plus One". She didn't _have_ a plus one. In the past, she would have dragged one of her male friends along, but nowadays they all had girlfriends. Or wives.

Hermione wondered if she could wriggle out of going to the ball altogether. Invent a sick aunt or something. She could already imagine the whole, tedious evening—the snobby, glittering, predominantly-Pureblood couples, the self-congratulatory atmosphere, the periphery of predatory journalists...and herself, sitting alone in a draughty corner, glugging too much champagne and trying to look like she was having a whale of a time. Occasionally turning a clumsy waltz with some junior Cabinet member with two left feet and horrible breath. Ugh.

And then, of course, there would be _them_. Him and her. _Together._

She had a sudden vision of them, Lucius and his Lady Fair, dressed in all their splendour and finery, stalking regally through the ballroom like two primped and preening peacocks. Drawing the eyes of everyone present, the admiring sighs of friends, the jealous stares of foes. Working the room with habitual confidence and ease. Dancing together with impossible elegance and grace. She blushed deeply, a strange pang of— _something_ —making her wince.

Hermione shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the image. _That_ was all over now. She hadn't spoken one single word to Lucius since their last encounter, and she intended to keep it that way.

She had had an epiphany about him, alone in her bathroom, rubbing tincture of Aloe vera into the angry red welts striping her bottom and thighs. She didn't know what was more humiliating: the punishment itself, her helplessness and indignity, or that he'd made her _enjoy_ it so thoroughly. Even when he had taken her—not roughly, like she'd expected, but slowly, masterfully, so completely in _control_ of himself and of her—she could sense his triumph in her traitorous body's submission to him... She had never come so hard or hated herself so much. What was even worse was the knowledge that she had, in fact, brought it all on herself. She had tweaked the tiger's tail, and she had got decisively bitten.

The stripes read like a warning to her, one which she was determined to heed. _This can lead to no good. This will only end in tears._ Ever since that revelation she had ignored him as completely as if he were wearing an invisibility cloak.

That had been the comparatively easy part. If only she could stop _thinking_ about him.

...No, spending an evening getting drunk while trying to _not_ obsessively watch Lucius dancing with his beautiful wife seemed like a distinctly bad idea. She would probably end up hexing the bastard, causing a scene and vomiting on her own feet. She didn't imagine that would fit in too well with Cyril Bullshitter Cholmondoly's "promotion of public relations".

 _Sick aunt it is then,_ she thought, crumpling the invitation and tossing it into the fireplace.

* * *

…

The afternoon was dragging on interminably, and Hermione was starting to wilt. The boardroom was stuffy, and she had been staring for so long at the scroll in front of her that the words were beginning to morph into little dancing stickmen.

The minutes dragged like they were being slowly pulled through mud. The Board was discussing whether the DIMC should stamp its logo onto the free quills it provided to foreign delegates. She thought she might die—actually _die_ —with boredom. That, or Avada herself. It was during times like these that it took every ounce of her self-control not to sneak a glance up to see if a certain someone was watching her...but how utterly mortifying it would be if he _was_. And how infinitely worse if he _wasn't_.

Three weeks and five days since she'd last acknowledged his existence. Three weeks and five days since her last decent night's sleep.

Finally, the meeting drew to a close. "Before we wrap up," Barrowland addressed the assembly, "might I remind everyone of the Masquerade this Saturday." He cast a stern eye around the conference table. "I expect you all to attend. The DIMC in particular needs to focus on presenting a positive image to its detractors and critics. Any questions?—No? Very well, I declare this meeting adjourned."

Hermione began to gather her scrolls and papers. _Don't look at him,_ she warned herself, as she always did. _Don't look at him._

"Miss Granger, are you hurrying home?" Mr. Barrowland's cheery voice interrupted her silent mantra. "I should like a word in my office if you have the time."

Hermione stared up at him, surprised. "Uhhh...er, certainly Mr. Barrowland," she said, wondering what on earth he could want with her. "Is it—is it anything particular?"

"Nothing to worry your pretty head about," replied the Chairman, with his usual mix of pomposity and condescension. "I simply need to enlist your help in the handling of a rather... delicate situation. I shan't keep you long. "

Hermione experienced a flutter of importance, that the Chairman had picked _her_ out to help him with a "situation". Perhaps a chance to really prove herself! Pleasant images sprang immediately into her mind, of becoming a trusted advisor, of being the executive's right-hand-witch, of becoming _indispensable_ to the Board. Visions, like scenes from a political television drama, played through her head _..."We have a situation! Fetch Ms. Granger at once!"..."Quickly, send for Ms. Granger. She alone can handle this crisis with discretion and efficiency!"_

She composed her features into her best Employee-of-the-Month smile. "No problem, Mr. Barrowland," she said, "of course I can stay behind." She began to bustle with her satchel, but in her haste she knocked it off the desk, causing an avalanche of papers, scrolls, books, stationery, snacks, warm clothes, toiletries and random miscellanea to pour out onto the floor around her ankles. _Great job, Ms. Efficiency. Just great._

Barrowland chuckled as she scrabbled around for her wand, red-faced and berating herself for her clumsiness. "No hurry, Miss Granger, no hurry." He gave her arm a patronizing pat. "I'll be in my office when you're ready."

She finally found her wand and performed a compiling spell, followed by a carefully executed "Pack". _What can the old codger want?_ she wondered as the scattered contents formed into neat piles and disappeared into her satchel. Hopefully, it would be a project she could really get her teeth into. Something to take her mind off...things.

Hermione buckled her satchel then hurried over to the door adjoining Mr. Barrowland's office. She paused outside it, neatening her robes and patting her hair, unable to quite quell a twinge of nerves. Barrowland might be a pompous fuddy-duddy with an irritatingly paternal manner, but he was still the executive of the Board. Her very career depended on staying in his good graces.

She was just about to knock when a shadow fell over the door, obscuring her own, and an all-too-familiar, intoxicatingly masculine scent inundated her like senses.

She froze.

"Allow me, Miss Granger," a voice— _that_ voice, lined with silk and edged with razors—murmured closely behind her. The possessor of the voice reached over her shoulder, so _nearly_ but not _quite_ touching her, and rapped on the oak panel with his gloved fist.

She was about to hissingly ask just what the _hell_ he was doing, when the door swung swiftly open to reveal Barrowland sitting at his office desk, perusing an edition of the Daily Prophet through a gold-rimmed monocle. "Ah, Miss Granger and Malfoy—good, good," he said, briefly looking up from the paper, "—come in both of you, take a seat."

 _B-b-both of us?_ Hermione was riveted to the spot with sudden panic. _What the hell is this about?_

Suddenly "delicate situation" took on a whole new horrible meaning. Visions of being reprimanded for indecent usage of the Chairman's chair filled her with paralyzing anxiety. She hovered in the doorway, fighting a very strong desire to turn on her heels and flee... But then Lucius's hands were on her shoulders, propelling her forwards, and his touch jolted her back to life. She elbowed him viciously, relishing the slight grunt of pain as he released his hold on her, then she stalked over to assume her seat, trying to look as saintly and dignified as possible.

 _Just deny everything,_ she decided. _It never happened, it wasn't me. It was some Polyjuiced floozy that Malfoy hired to enact his depraved fantasies..._ That seemed plausible. That could actually work.

She was so busy thinking up ways to throw Lucius under the bus she barely noticed that Barrowland had begun to speak. When she tuned in he was part-way through a sentence. "...have been some eyebrows raised and concerns voiced. As I'm sure you're both aware, the media in particular,"—he tapped the newspaper on his desk—"have chosen to represent this in a negative light."

Hermione blinked. _What is the old fool talking about?_

"That's where you come in, Miss Granger," he continued.

"I do?" she said blankly.

"You of all people can help to turn this situation around to our advantage, Miss Granger. It was, after all, one partly of your making."

 _Lucius's appointment to the Board,_ she suddenly realized. Of course, she'd read the protestations in the paper, felt the ripples of disapproval through the Ministry ranks. Not everyone was thrilled that such a prominent Death Eater had managed to insinuate himself onto the DIMC's Board. "Why me?" she asked rather sulkily, deflated with the realization that this meeting was not going to be one that elevated her to the ranks of indispensability and eminence. "I don't see what _I_ can do about it." She didn't _want_ to do anything about it. More than ever she wanted the scoundrel _expelled_.

Mr. Barrowland beamed cheerily at her. "Au contraire, young lady, au contraire...the ball this Saturday is the perfect place for us to promote our united front. Purebloods and Muggle-borns as one tight-knit team, supporting each other publicly. What better way to demonstrate the Ministry's progress in blood-status relations than by having our two most famous representatives from opposite sides of the—ahem—equation, socializing together, dancing together—"

"SICK AUNT," Hermione blurted out, much, much, much too loudly.

There was a long silence as Mr. Barrowland squinted at her through his monocle. "What was that, dear?"

She began to falter out her excuse. "I—can't make it—my aunt—sick—maybe dying—have to stay—bedside..." she trailed off. She heard Lucius snort softly at her blatant dissemblance.

Mr. Barrowland's smile disappeared, and suddenly he didn't look like so much the bumbling git she always supposed him to be. In fact, he looked extremely severe and forbidding. He gazed at her coldly. "Miss Granger, am I to understand you don't intend to go to the ball this Saturday?"

"I—I can't, Mr. Barrowland," she stammered apologetically, wondering exactly when straight-out-and-out-lying had become such a significant part of her skill-set. "It's all very sudden and unexpected a-and _tragic_. Er...Dragon Pox. And pneumonia. A double-whammy." _A double whammy? Shut up, Hermione._

Mr. Barrowland leaned forward, his leather chair creaking ominously. "Miss Granger... I would be most displeased to discover that _you_ of all the Board members intend to forsake your duties during our hour of need. _Most_ displeased. Sick aunt or no, it would be difficult to view your absence in any other light than one of... disloyalty."

Hermione felt the colour drain from her cheeks. "Th-that's not fair, Mr. Barrowland!"

"I don't detect any opposition coming from Mr. Malfoy —" he turned to Lucius, "— do I, Malfoy?"

"None at all," said Lucius smoothly, making Hermione want to scream with irritation. She would _not_ be seen dancing in public with that—that —

"And really," Barrowland continued, "knowing how ardently you advocated Mr. Malfoy's election to the Board, I can see no reasonable justification for this sudden objection."

"I _don't_ object," she replied, trying desperately to contain the rising pitch of her voice, "I just have reasons to not wish to attend." ( _Six reasons to be precise,_ she thought darkly.) "Can't you find someone _else_ for this—this _media stunt?_ "

"I'm sure you're quite aware, Miss Granger, that _you_ are the only Muggle-born female on this Board."

"Mrs. Gibbons—"

"Is eighty-three years old, Granger." He gave her a pointed look, and she felt the omission of "Miss" before her name was meant as a deliberate rebuke. "Really, young lady, I am surprised—nay, shocked—at this unseemly resistance. You would not have to stay the whole evening. Merely two or three dances, for the benefit of the cameras and the invited public, is all that would be required."

"But—"

"Unless, perhaps, the confidence I have here-to-fore afforded you has been…misplaced?"

The blood that had forsaken her cheeks now flooded her entire face and neck. His words were laden with meaning and tinged with unspecified threats. "No, of course not," she said through clenched teeth.

There was another long pause, designed, it seemed to Hermione, to make her squirm.

"Then you agree to the arrangement?" Barrowland said at last. "Three dances with Malfoy for the cameras?"

No bloody way! Screw you, screw Lucius, and screw your "blood-status relations" "united front" BULLSHIT!

"Yes," she gritted out, her eyes prickling hotly. After everything she'd done to avoid the bastard...

Barrowland leaned back in his seat, a loathsome smile on his face. "Good girl," he said. Hermione flinched. If there was one thing she hated more than being called "young lady" it was "good girl". _They're all as bad as each other,_ she thought furiously. _Bullying, conniving, Pureblood chauvinists with self-serving agendas._

"Well, I'm glad we all see eye to eye on this issue," the Chairman said, back to his usual hearty tone. "Miss Granger, you may have tomorrow off to visit your sick aunt. All right, young lady? All right. That will be all."

Not waiting for further formalities, Hermione sprung from her chair and stormed past Lucius, out of the office, and back through to the boardroom. She practically ran to the exit and wrenched it open, her chest heaving with rage.

The corridor was bustling with after-work activity, and for a moment Hermione stood still amidst the throng, gasping in lungfuls of the freer air, trying to get a handle on her roiling emotions. Accused of disloyalty! Forced to make a public spectacle of herself! She seethed with the injustice of it.

"Miss Granger, you forgot your bag."

 _Fuck an actual duck._ She spun around to see Mr. Lord High King Smug Bastard Malfoy sauntering through the door, his embossed, silver-hinged attache case in one hand, and her limp, sorry-looking satchel in the other. He held it out to her with a significant smirk, and she snatched it ungraciously from him.

"You're welcome, Miss Granger," he said, his mouth twitching with amusement.

"Sod off, Malfoy," she retorted with a scowl.

"What—breaking your vow of silence, at last, Miss Granger? What a shame."

"Actually I _do_ have something to say to you, Malfoy," she hissed at him. "I—I—I might be forced to talk to you, and work with you, a-and _dance_ with you, but I am never—Never—NEVER—going to sleep with you, ever again. Am I making myself completely clear?"

The twitches of amusement solidified into a devilish smile. "Delightfully _transparent_ , my dear," he replied.

"And exactly what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, driving her fury-factor up several notches higher.

"Just—shut up!"

"I didn't say anything, Miss Granger."

"You are _such_ an _arse_!"

"Speaking of which, how is your—"

"I said _shut up!_ " She was breathless, dizzy with rage. "How dare you even _speak_ to me about th-that? You _assaulted_ me!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seemed to me that you quite enjoyed the experience."

"That is completely irrelevant!" She practically yelled at him, heedless of the curious glances she was eliciting from the hurrying passers-by. "You coerced me— _forced_ me—"

"Miss Granger," he overrode her warningly, "this is hardly the time or place to discuss our mutual grievances."

She gasped with indignation. " _Mutual?!_ "

Lucius grasped her wrists and pulled her behind one of the thick black-marble columns flanking the entrance to the boardroom. "Yes, my dear: 'mutual'," he growled, clearly annoyed at her want of discretion. "Do I need to remind you of your own questionable—not to mention actionable—exploits? Detaining and imprisoning by magical force? Performing non-consensual indecencies on an incapacitated party? Stealing property with intent to defame?" His eyes narrowed calculatingly. "...Shall I go on?"

Hermione twisted in his grip, trying to reach for her wand, but the more she wriggled, the tighter his fingers clamped around her wrists. "That was—that was completely different—"

"How so, my dear? Have you never heard the expression, 'Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander'—? I believe the reverse is also true."

"That does not give you the right to—to _do what you did!_ "

He smiled. "I rather think it does." His voice was a velvety purr, and there was a certain glint in his silver eyes that made her stomach swoop and heart flitter, even as her eyes prickled with furious tears. She knew he was right, and she hated— _hated_ him for it. How was it possible that she had got herself into such a mess? What sort of warped reality was this? Where Lucius Sodding Malfoy was lecturing _her_ on morality and justice? Where the one man she hated above all others was the one man she craved like no other? Where everything single line was hopelessly blurred: between pain and pleasure, right and wrong, hate and desire...

He was leaning over her now, his mouth was close, so close to hers, and she could feel his breath brushing her skin. His body pressed against her with a sensuality that made her legs tremble and an assured entitlement that made her want to claw his face. It was this casually-assumed possessiveness that impelled the next words from her lips. "You will never touch me again, Lucius. _Never_."

Lucius straightened and waved his hand with maddening dismissiveness. "Thank Salazar for that," he drawled, although there was an edge to his tone which belied his indifference. She waited for the sting, and it wasn't long in coming. "Oh, by the bye Miss Granger— _do_ let me know if you need to borrow some Galleons for a costume this Saturday, won't you my dear? It's bad enough being forced to stand up in public with a muggle-born, but a shabbily-dressed one would _really_ be asking too much."

His voice was laced with just enough sneering sincerity to send her blood pressure skyrocketing back through the roof. She turned on him irately. "You could dust off your Death Eater mask and save _yourself_ some Galleons!"

Hermione could see by the liquid heat in his eyes that her arrow had hit home. He pulled her roughly against him and stooped to softly mutter in her ear, "Don't think the possibility hasn't crossed my mind, _Mudblood_."

She directed a kick at his shins—not a soft one—and wrenched herself free of his grasp, springing away from the shadowy column and back into the bustling corridor. She melded herself into its midst, letting the tide of hurrying feet carry her away.

 _Well,_ she thought _, that should leave a lovely bruise._


	8. The Devil Be Flame

_You may be flesh and the devil be flame_  
_You may be lithe and the devil be lame_  
_You may be fair and the devil be grim_  
_But sooner than you, I'd dance with him._

...

Hermione wasn't spending the evening alone in a dark, draughty corner of the ballroom like she had feared.

She was spending it alone in a toilet cubicle.

Every so often the bathroom door would open, and the swell of waltz music and hum of lively conversation would echo around the marble walls of her self-imposed isolation cell.

She crossed her legs, squeezing her thighs tightly together. There was an unmistakable tingling between them which had started when Lucius had accosted her earlier in the week and had steadily intensified since then. How in Hades was she going to handle dancing with him? The mere idea of him _touching_ her was making her tremble all over. His hands on her waist...drawing her against him, his hard body pressed the entire length of her...his scent seductively infiltrating...

She didn't know if she could do it. She had a notion that she would spontaneously combust at the first moment of contact.

 _Damn, damn, damn him,_ she thought. Why did she get the feeling that she'd never be satisfied again?

She had done everything she could think of to get him out of her head: extra reading, brushing up on her spells and wandwork, cooking, yoga—she'd even taken to manually scrubbing her flat with a dishcloth and bottle of squirty detergent, for heaven's sake—but to no avail. There he was, _lounging_ in her head as if he owned the place.

Night times were even worse. The moment she closed her eyes he was over her and on top of her and inside her, and the tighter she shut her eyes, the brighter his silver ones glittered and mocked her. Not even convoluted fantasies about buff pro-league Quidditch player could rid her of him. Whenever she touched herself _there_ , Lucius instantly crowded out every other thought, filling her mind as thoroughly as he had filled her body...all muscular limbs, silvery gaze, satin hair. His hair. Trailing over her thighs. Oh god...

"Bastard," Hermione muttered to herself. "Why should I dance with him? I _hate_ him."

Of course, her body seemed to be mixing up _"hate"_ with _"am incredibly hot for."_

It had taken one moment—one frozen, horrified glimpse _of Them_ —to send her scurrying away to her present hiding place. How could she face them? How could she face... _her?_

Even masked, there was no doubt as to their identity when they had swept into the ballroom. If the manes of snowy blonde hair hadn't given it away (which of course it had) the sheer, unapologetic opulence of their costumes must have done so.

It was a display of outlandish resplendence: billowing volumes of white silk, peacock-blue velvet, and exquisite gold lace, every surface scintillating with matchless jewels, every seam spilling out an abundance of frothy frills and flounces. And that was just Lucius.

Hermione had been instantly reminded of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette if those muggle monarchs had had access to magical dress modification. The costume-magic was clever, subtle and expensive. Their porcelain masks had been charmed to mimic the wearer's expression. Unsurprisingly, the beautifully-painted vysars were manifesting the indomitable arrogance of the one, and the cool superciliousness of the other. Their matching cloaks were intricately embroidered with tiny gold-silk stitches that constantly unravelled and resewed themselves into varying famous scenes of medieval sorcery. Lucius's rakishly-angled black tricorn hat featured a trio of peacock feathers that fluidly changed colour; and as for Narcissa, her outlandishly curled and piled hair was twined through with a sapphire-coloured ribbon made from delicately-conjoined butterflies which periodically flittered up, like a floating daisy-chain, then resettled upon their silky bed.

Lucius had never looked so magnificent, so imposing. Narcissa had never seemed more lovely or glacial.

Hermione stared down at her own mask lying on her lap, and her mouth twisted with despair. It had taken the entire remaining week to finally decide on her costume. After an agony of indecision, she had elected to go as the celebrated Witch-Rights activist Perdita Plimsole. She had wanted to make a statement. To him. To herself. She was an independent, intelligent witch who didn't need a _wizard_ to complete her...

...But now it all felt like a horrible mistake. The puritanical black robes and severe grey wimple were about as attractive as a...as a...?

Nothing. There was literally nothing attractive about the thickly swathing wool, or her piously purse-lipped mask.

 _What was I thinking?_ Hermione wondered morosely. _This is stupidity bordering on masochism._

Her dark ruminations were interrupted by the clock in the outer hallway noisily proclaiming eight o'clock.

With a start of shock, Hermione realized that she had now officially been sitting in the cubicle for half an hour. She had literally lost half an hour of her life. As well as the sensation in one bottom cheek.

And suddenly she was over it.

"What am I doing?" she exclaimed aloud, enraged in equal parts with herself and with the man who had caused all this mess in the first place. "Why should I hide from _him?_ If anything, he should be hiding from ME!"

She jumped to her feet and began to furiously rub the life back into her numb posterior.

Wrathful thoughts seethed and bubbled almost volcanically in her head. ...If he thought—if he thought for JUST ONE MOMENT that she was going to let him lord it over her, and bully her, and make her feel like a—a worthless mudblood—which, by the way, was _literally_ the last word he'd said to her—he had another thing coming! What was his response, when she'd told him she'd never sleep with him again? "Thank Salazar for that." Ugh— _ugh_ , that bastard! How dare he reject her? She rejected him FIRST! (Even if all she could think about was being ravished against a wall by him)—oh, shut up, Mind! That was irrelevant! He had NO RIGHT to pretend he didn't care. ...Well, she'd show him!

Hermione slammed open the cubicle, threw a locking charm at the outer door, then began frenziedly stripping off the wimple and robes, muttering a long string of colourful expletives, until finally, she stood in only her lacy, scarlet underslip.

Extracting her wand from the pile of material at her feet, she surveyed her scantily-clad reflection speculatively, eyeing up the potential Transfigurability of the flimsy garment.

"Oh, so they want Famous Faces from Magical History, do they?" she addressed herself, her eyes incandescent and glittering with rage. "Well, we'll give them bloody 'famous'!" She shook her hair back from her face and grasped her wand tightly in her fist. "We're going as Hermione Jean Granger!—And we'll just see who's rejecting who!"

And then, because she _was_ Hermione Jean Granger, and grammar was more important than all the unbridled rage in the world, she corrected herself. "...I mean, 'whom'."

* * *

…

She was ready in mere minutes. Anger acted like an accellerant, bitter resentment focused her concentration, and with a few, concise movements and tersely-muttered incantations, she felt—and looked—like a brand new witch.

Really, it hadn't been too difficult to accomplish. The lacy floral accents of the underslip became the main motif of the dress, clinging to her body as if they grown up and around her like a climbing plant, swirling to judiciously cover certain points and places of interest, but leaving precious little to the imagination. A basic but effective sequinning charm made the whole garment shimmer and twinkle with the smallest movement.

True, it wasn't a proper dress-robe or actual costume. And, except for sparkling, it didn't actually _do_ anything magical. In fact, its virtue lay mostly in what it didn't do. It didn't cover very much. It didn't try to hide anything. And it most certainly didn't apologize.

She had initially plumped for six-inch stilettoes, but on second thoughts rejected the idea, because the last thing she wanted was a photo in tomorrow's paper of her face-planting in front of everyone, with Lucius and Narcissa smirking in the background. A variety of headlines presented themselves to her imagination. ... _'Herm-On-My-Knees Granger: Ministry Darling Takes A Tumble!' ... 'Witch Your Step, Hermione! Those Shoes Are Grangerous!'_ She shuddered. The mental imagery made her stomach turn, and she hastily modified the shoes down to four inches apiece.

Her mask was an easy mod. She Diffindo'd the bottom half right off, then remolded and tinted the remainder with a temporary gilding charm. Her nose wrinkled in annoyance as she imagined Lucius's sneer at her use of "temporary alchemy". She doubted he ever had to _stoop_ to such measures...but it was really very convincing, and the effect against her dark hair and red dress was quite striking, so to hell with him.

She borrowed a couple of long-stemmed roses from a vase beside the basin and Transfigured them into two long, delicate, golden feathers. Carefully she threaded them into her bunched curls, and they trailed down her bare back in a rather enticing way. She smiled. Lucius might be a pompous, preening peacock, but tonight she was a _Firebird_. And she was going to make him _burn_.

"Aaaand the final touch." With a swish, Hermione Accio'd her ruby lipstick from her clutch—the same colour she'd put to such good use in the Boardroom _that_ day—and slicked an unrepentantly generous coating onto her lips. If that didn't get him riled up she didn't know what would.

She turned a couple of times, checking her reflection from all angles. Even masked, there was no mistaking her for anyone else.

 _Not a bad job, Hermione,_ she thought. _Not bad at all. Now, time to go and dance with the devil._

* * *

…

Hermione stealthily re-entered the ballroom under cover of a passing waiter and concealed herself behind a tall, potted fern.

Peering through the fronds, she immediately saw that Lucius and Narcissa had parted and were mingling on nearly opposite sides of the room, divided by a dancefloor full of waltzing couples. Narcissa was encircled by a congregation of admiring wizards, from the centre of which her ostentatious pompadour hair emerged like a tall white beacon. Lucius stood near the bar, surveying the crowd with his usual sneering impassivity, sparing an occasional monosyllable for a couple of daring witches who were vainly attempting to secure his attention. She saw him periodically glancing at the entranceway with a barely-contained scowl, and she was rather thrilled to imagine he was looking—waiting—for her to arrive. She could only thank her lucky stars he hadn't recognised her in the hideous wimple.

She had to admit, the Ministry had put on quite a show. They had taken their Magical History theme and run with it—great ice-sculptures of illustrious witches and wizards posed magnificently in front of every window, bathed in moonlight, and the walls were projected with huge, magnified excerpts from biographical books and famous quotes. Everything that could sparkle was doing so in the light of thousands of tiny candles floating above the crowd, and the whole room glowed with expensively complex glamour-lighting charms. A string quartet was providing accomplished renditions of popular wizarding-waltzes, subtly amplified with an ambiance spell to reach the furthest corner of the huge ballroom.

It was, Hermione thought, as sumptuous and grandiose as it was smug and self-satisfied.

"Alright, girl," she muttered to herself, "It's time to shake this place up a bit."

Letting go of the fern, she stepped boldly out from behind it and, head held high, she sashayed into the assembled throng.

Her sudden appearance was met with a ripple of scandalized whispering. There were stares of every kind from every direction. Ogling stares, admiring stares, jealous stares and disapproving stares. Even some genuinely confused stares from more elderly individuals, who had presumably never beheld muggle clothing before (if, indeed, it counted as clothing). Hermione was dying to know what sort of a stare she might have elicited from Lucius, but she kept her eyes studiously away from him.

Near the periphery of dancers stood a rather handsome young wizard with dark, curly hair, standing with a full flute of champagne in one hand, staring at her with something very much akin to love-struck adoration. She gave him her best You're Welcome smile—and almost at the same moment, an idea struck her. ... _Hmm, yes, you'll do very nicely,_ she thought.

"That champagne looks divine," she drawled at the young man, hoping her husky tone sounded seductive, but fearing it sounded like she had laryngitis. "Strawberry, is it?" So saying, she extracted the fluted glass from his trembling grip and, right then and there, polished the whole thing off in three, not-very-graceful gulps. As soon as it was empty, the glass sprouted little wings and flew off, presumably back to the kitchen to be cleaned.

"What did you say your name was, again?" she said, knowing full well that he hadn't yet said a thing.

Blushing to the hairline, the handsome wizard stammered out his name, but she was damned if she could make it out. Six months ago, Hermione might have found such puppy-love rather endearing, but right now she had a very strong, irrational urge to slap him. She was certain that Lucius was watching her, and she didn't want to waste this precious opportunity to annoy him. "Well? Are we dancing or not?" she asked him a little snappily, forgetting all about the seductive voice.

Luckily, the young man seemed to regain his composure, and with a mixture of extreme jubilance and reverence on his face, he drew her into the dance.

It wasn't exactly a waltz. More a hesitant, awkward kind of shuffle. He seemed afraid that if he touched her she might disappear like a bursting bubble, and Hermione found herself leading him, rather than the traditional reverse. But it did the trick.

Eight seconds. She counted eight seconds, and then the dark-haired wizard was being shoved unceremoniously out of the way, and Lucius was gripping her in a very tight hold, his face—or rather, his mask—like thunder. The first touch of him was like a lightning bolt through her whole being, it was the moment she had dreaded for so many days and anticipated for so many nights. She was alight, burning, sizzling and melting all at once...but somehow, somehow she managed to hold it together, and form her features into an arrangement of cool surprise.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked him innocently. "I was dancing with that _young_ man." She emphasized the "young" meaningfully.

"Who was that?" he muttered darkly, as he expertly (though none-too-gently) swung her into the waltz.

Hermione's heart sung, and elation thrummed through her. Oh, he rejected her, did he? Like hell he did! "Oh...him?" she said vaguely. "Just an acquaintance. Such a nice boy, I really like his hair—"

"Tell me his name," he demanded.

"I can't remember—"

He actually gave her a hard little shake, even as he manoeuvred her elegantly through the surrounding couples. "Tell me his name or I'll break his neck," he snarled into her ear.

A bit flurried by his wrath, and actually concerned for the life of the young man in question, Hermione blurted, "I don't know! I just met him!"

Lucius did not reply, but she could literally feel the tension of his body, pressed so possessively against her, unwinding and relaxing, and when she looked up at him she saw his mask had resumed its urbane, unflappably arrogant expression. _Huh, well, we'll just see how long that lasts_ , she thought.

"I love your costume, Lucius," she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. "Let me guess—you've come as your wife's jewelry box."

His mouth curved upwards, and through the hollows of his mask, his eyes plainly read, Challenge Accepted. "Thank you, my dear," he said silkily. "I only wish I could return the compliment." He whirled her smoothly outwards, then spun her tightly against him, adding, "But it appears you couldn't afford the requisite yards of fabric to construct one full article of clothing."

Her temper half-heartedly flared, but she was feeling too dizzy to be completely enraged. His cologne—different from usual, stronger and spicier—and his tight embrace were making it hard to properly breathe, let alone think. "Oh—no," she managed to reply, through the mist of anger and dizziness. "I came as the most famous witch I could think of."

He laughed at this—it seemed half mockingly, half appreciatively—and she jumped as she felt his hand "accidentally" drop from her waist to the curve of her bottom as he breathed, "Why, you incorrigible little minx," almost against her lips.

"I do my best," Hermione replied faintly, thanking god the media were not arriving until the unmasking, because she was unsure if she might not really swoon. And it was just as well Lucius was wearing so many frills because she could feel distinctly rigid parts of his anatomy pressing into distinctly damp parts of her own.

Desperate to get herself under control, she pulled back from him (though not very successfully, because he was still holding her like a clamp) and murmured, "You know, some people actually find ostentation vulgar, Lucius. But I suppose you aren't familiar with the expression "less is more"."

"No," he said, with a sudden turn which she was forced to follow or fall. "I believe it is a cant phrase only ever used by persons who do not have "more". And I, as you know, have _plenty_."

Hermione couldn't even argue. It was true. He had plenty. ... _Yes_ , agreed her mind, _quite as much as you can take._

 _Oh, not you again Mind!_ she immediately scolded herself. _Stop ganging up against me with Body! I can't fight both of you!_

"All the money in the world won't win you friends," she said, trying very hard to sound icy.

His mask formed an expression somewhere between a sneer and smirk. "Perhaps not. But it will certainly _buy_ them."

"Well it won't buy _me_ ," she retorted.

Again he laughed. "Oh, I don't intend to buy you, Miss Granger..." His voice was like melted chocolate. "You'll—ah, _come_ quickly enough, I dare say."

 _Fuck. Nnnngggg. Dammit._ His words were stoking the flames inside her to unbearable heights, making her literally squirm in his arms. "Huh! You wish!" she hissed at him furiously, because she had to channel that blazing heat somehow, or she would surely explode, "I told you I would never sleep with you again, and I mean it! Now, let me go!"

She tried to wrench herself away, but he gripped her wrist all the tighter, his mask glowering with sudden ire. "No one leaves me on the dancefloor," he muttered, "least of all an upstart little mudblood not half my age."

Once more, he led her in a series of complex steps that she had no choice but to submit to, but her cheeks burned in helpless rebellion. Glaring up at him, she said, "I wouldn't sleep with you if—if—"

Amusement swiftly replaced his scowl. "If I was the last man on earth?" he suggested helpfully.

"Exactly!" She was huffing now. She couldn't believe he had made her go from icy to huffing in mere seconds. "And I'll have you know, if we were alone now, I would hex you into tomorrow!"

"If we were alone now," he drawled softly, "you would be _thanking_ me tomorrow."

Hermione sputtered with incredulous rage. "I— _I—thanking you?_ "

She was that close— _that_ close—to kneeing the blond bastard in the groin when the music abruptly ended, and Lucius released her from his imprisoning grasp. Seethingly she watched him execute an impossibly elegant, mocking bow. She felt disoriented by her roiling emotions—her triumph in his jealousy had all but dissolved in his assumed prerogative and entitlement, and his conviction of her susceptibility.

But it seemed he had not finished adding insult to injury. As he escorted her off the dancefloor, he murmured, "Miss Granger, allow me to pick up the gauntlet you have so recklessly thrown at my feet."

She glared suspiciously at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, with a taunting smile, "to propose a wager. —That is if you actually possess the courage to accept it."

Oh, it was a masterstroke, calling her courage into question. He knew exactly how to secure her participation. She _knew_ he did, and she knew that he knew she knew. And though her mind was screaming at her IT'S A TRAP! - her lips had already spilled out with, "What wager?"

"I _will_ have you thank me."

"Never," she snarled through gritted teeth.

"Yes—you will thank me—before this evening is through." He ignored her snort of dissension, and suavely continued, "...If _you_ win, I give my word to resign my position on the board and never again disturb you with my unwanted presence."

Hermione took a moment to digest this prospect, flip-flopping between relief at the thought and an unaccountable emptiness. "And if I lose?" she asked, her voice trembling a little. "Not that I will, of course—"

"If _you_ lose..." Lucius overrode her, the expression on his mask both tantalizing and insinuating. "If you lose, you are mine for one night. No excuses, no conditions, no disobedience." He leaned into and over her, ambushing her with his scent, and the palpable, heated energy of his hard body. "All mine."

Hermione's lips felt numb, and there was a kind of low roaring in her ears.

Through it all, she heard herself reply, "You're on."


	9. What You Shouldn't Do (When Doing What You Shouldn't)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I must say, you are all most shockingly against Hermione winning the wager! I would say roughly 95% are shameless #TeamLucius supporters! XD  
> Thanks for your continued support. It really means a lot! I hope you enjoy this next installment of frothy, silly, smutty fun.  
> Love n hugs, artful.

Hermione turned her back on Lucius's wicked smile and flounced away from him—well, as much as she _could_ flounce in her spiky heels without jeopardizing her balance.

Not sure which direction to go, and unwilling for Lucius to witness her dithering mid-flounce, she made a default line to the bar and requested another glass of the strawberry champagne.

 _The arrogance of that man really takes the cauldron cake,_ she thought, taking a defiant swig of the fizzy liquid. _As if I have anything to THANK him for! ...huh. Huh!_

She glanced furtively in the gold-framed mirror behind the bar, and immediately her eyes were drawn to his reflection. His was the tallest, most distinguished and distinguishable figure in the whole room. He was now chatting with Barrowland's shrewish-looking wife. Well, probably not "chatting". She didn't imagine he ever chatted. Drawled, or insinuated, or smarmed, more like.

 _He really thinks he's Godric's Gift to witchkind, doesn't he?_ She took a second angry gulp. _As if! Apart from his money and his looks, what has he got?—Don't you dare answer that, Mind!_ She tried to prohibit the flood of reply-thoughts, but it was too late. _Extremely-clever-fingers, very-dexterous-tongue, impressively-oversized-trousersnake (seriously, Mind, "trousersnake"?) a-smile-that-makes-you-pant, a-voice-that-makes-you-melt, a-scent-that-drives-you-to-distraction—Okay, okay, I get it! Just shut up for once, will you?!_

A third glug finished off the glass. _Whew, that stuff goes straight to your head,_ she thought, restraining herself from ordering another. She was already getting that feeling of reeling belligerence, which boded ominously for maintaining her dignity. And for winning wagers.

And OF COURSE she wanted to—simply _had_ to—win. There was no way she could possibly wish to lose! Definitely not. No way.

_Methinks the lady doth protest too much–_ _–_ _I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO SHUT UP, MIND!_

Another sneaky glimpse in the mirror revealed that Lucius had moved on from smarming with the Chairman's wife to smarming with the Minister's wife. Surely he wouldn't ask her to da—he asked her to dance! The nerve of that man was unbelievable! It was almost like he'd modified the Ministry's collective memory as to his disgraceful history.

_You can talk, Hermione._

She grimaced and tore her eyes away from his oh-so-magnetic personage. As she did so, she noticed that the handsome, dark-haired young wizard from before was lurking in her periphery, evidently trying to decide if it were safe to approach her again. Wisely, he didn't. She had no idea what Lucius would be capable of doing to him, but she was sure it wouldn't be very easily reversed.

A hard knot of triumph balled in her stomach. Oh, Lucius had been jealous, alright. His High and Mighty, Too-Good-For-Thou, Pureblood Majesty had shown a crack in his armour of arrogance and superiority after all. Bet he didn't see that one coming!

She glanced at the clock behind the bar. Nearly twenty to nine. The unmasking was at nine, and the media would be let in shortly beforehand. Exactly how she was going to fill in the next twenty minutes whilst avoiding both Malfoys, Mr. Idiotface Barrowland, and any old Hogwarts acquaintances (because the last thing she wanted was to have to explain dancing with Lucius to _them_ ) was quite the conundrum.

 _Just one more drink won't hurt,_ she decided, signalling the bartender. _That should take up another ten minutes or so._

Thirty-eight seconds later she was back in the same quandary. _Hmm,_ she thought, _maybe they charmed the glasses to look bigger than they really are._ And she concluded the thought with a surprisingly loud hiccup.

"My, my," a twining, sibilant voice extracted her from her ruminations, "we _are_ thirsty tonight."

Ugh! How had she not noticed him sneaking up on her? Her eyes raised to connect with his in the mirror reflection, and she suddenly felt as if she were being sandwiched between two Luciuses. This idea brought a rush of warmth to her face and a tingle to certain other places.

His own porcelain visor was manifesting a most obnoxious smirk as he beheld the blush which her half-mask only partially obscured. "Something got you all...hot and bothered, my dear?"

Hermione looked at her empty glass regretfully. It would have been so nice to throw it in his face. "Yesh," she answered instead, only now discovering that her tongue wasn't working properly. "Shupreme boredom."

Lucius tsk'd disapprovingly at her slurred words. "A witch drinking alone is such a _pitiful_ object, don't you think?"

"Meh meh meh-meh meh," Hermione replied, half-disgusted, half-impressed that she, brilliant witch extraordinaire, was resorting to five-year-old playground tactics. She really shouldn't have had that last drink.

The arc of his mask's painted eyebrow told her that Lucius thought so too. "Come, my dear," he murmured softly, "you don't want to make a spectacle of yourself, do you?"

"Maybe I do, Luthish...Luth-iush...maybe I do."

"Be that as it may, I very much object to you doing so in my company."

"Well then— _go—away_."

The eyes of Lucius's mask narrowed. "In case you didn't realize, Miss Granger, we are engaged to dance before the cameras in a little over ten minutes."

"Oh, I realize...I'm jusht not inclined to do it sh-shth-ssober." She raised her arm to signal for another drink, but Lucius swiftly gripped and pinned it by her side.

"Leg _go_ of me!" she hissed angrily, attempting to simultaneously free her arm and elbow him in the stomach, but somehow getting herself even more entwined in his grasp.

"Oh, no, my charming little inebriate. You're coming with _me_." So saying, Lucius all but dragged her off her stool, pulling her away from the bar.

Hermione was forced to decide between submitting to his manhandling or creating a rumpus. But as much as she wished to, a rumpus _just_ when the media were literally coming through the door did not seem like a sensible thing to create. Even in her tipsy state, she could see that. If she squinted.

It was just as well Lucius's grip was so tight, or she would certainly have lost her balance. He swept her through a pair of glass French doors and out onto one of the star-lit terraces, pausing momentarily on the threshold to brush his mask away with a swipe of his wand, and fasten the doors behind them.

In a few more moments Hermione found herself pressed bodily against the rough stone of the outside wall, in a very close approximation of one of her recent night-time fantasies...and then somehow her hands were twining about Lucius's neck, and her lips were parting as his mouth drew near, and she could just about taste the delectable combination of champagne and cigars a-and cinnamon?–on his breath...but then dizzily she recalled that she wasn't supposed to kiss him, let alone _want_ to, and she pulled back and aimed a not very accurate slap at his detestably handsome face.

Lucius grabbed her wrist with his left hand and jerked it against the wall beside her head. "Don't...move," he growled. Hermione shivered deliciously at his dark tone, and ruefully admitted to herself that, right then, wild thestrals wouldn't have been able to drag her away...

She felt Lucius's right hand settle on her inner thigh, and she couldn't help parting them a little further. Her eyes closed. Somewhere buried in the fuzziness of her mind an admonishing voice was telling her that, if this was part of her plan for not letting Lucius near her ever again, it had some serious flaws to it.

But gods, how she wanted— _needed_ —him to touch her...it had been so long...and he was just so _good_...or bad...well, both...she could feel the smooth heat of his palm sliding slowly upwards...she bit her lip to stifle a moan of anticipation as she felt her knickers being worked down, over her hips, down and down her thighs...

Once, twice, he brushed his thumb teasingly over her warm, damp seam, and she stood stock-still, holding her breath, as she waited with barely contained impatience for his fingers to report to their stations and begin their exquisite duties...

But suddenly his hand slid away, triggering a small disappointed gasp from her lips; she felt his weight shift, and then—

"Sobrium." The word cut unpleasantly through the haze of enticing scenarios which were clouding her thoughts. There was a spark of blue light, then she screeched as the fuzzy warmth of the champagne was completely extinguished by a horrible feeling of being drenched by a bucket of icy water, leaving her stone-cold sober and violently shivering.

For some moments she could only gasp and sputter in shock, then her body stiffened as she realized just how close she had come to betraying herself. "Unhand me THIS INSTANT!" she bellowed.

The wizard sneered. "No need to caterwaul, my dear," he murmured, releasing his hold on her, though he continued to loom closely over her.

"What the hell did you do THAT for?" Hermione demanded irately, hastily tugging her knickers and skirt back into place, too livid to be as mortified as she ought at the indignity of her situation.

"I told you, I object to you making a spectacle in my company," Lucius replied coolly.

"And I told you I do what I want!" She was aware that she _hadn't_ told him that, but that was hardly the point.

"My dear girl, you were hardly in a fit state to know _what_ you wanted, let alone _do_ it." He smiled mockingly. "Besides, I won't have you disqualifying yourself from our little wager. I want you thoroughly _compos mentis_ when you publicly thank me tonight."

"I assure you, it won't happen!"

"I promise you, it will."

Hermione gave his chest a shove which failed to budge him one inch. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Lucius Malfoy, Pureblood wizard, at your service," he drawled. "And you would do well not to forget it."

"Oh! That...that's...that is _precious!_ " She ducked under his arm and skittered on her heels (stupid damned things!) out into the middle of the marble-paved terrace, whirling to face him. "News flash, Lucius, we're in the twenty-first century now! Your blood status means absolutely nothing! Zippo! You know what you _really_ are? You're just some washed up—"

"Careful, my dear," he cut in warningly, but she was too thoroughly enraged to stop herself now:

"—Over-entitled!—"

"You would do well to remind yourself—"

"—Arrogant!—"

"–of what happened the last time you played with fire..."

"—Odious!—"

Lucius advanced towards her menacingly, and Hermione grappled to extract her wand from the concealed pocket containing it. "You forget your place, madam—"

"—Foppish!—"

"I warn you, mudblood..."

"—Bigoted!—"

"Hold your tongue, you impertinent—"

"—Repulsive!—"

"–insolent little—"

"HORKLUMP!"

"BANSHEE!"

The two insults clashed exactly at the same time, as wizard and witch brandished their angrily-sparking wands and stood _En Garde_ , their eyes locked and glittering with mutual rage.

Just at that precise moment—when the only thing preventing Hermione from casting an emasculating jinx was the pesky awareness that to do so might be shooting herself in the foot, so to speak—an almighty GONG resonated around them, followed by a trumpet fanfare.

She let out a frustrated, explosive sigh. It was time for the unmasking.

In two long strides, Lucius was beside her. "You had better behave yourself, my girl," he muttered in her ear, "You have much, _much_ more to lose than I." So saying, he waved his mask back into place, and, with an another precise flick of his wand, caused the French doors to fly open.

And then there was really nothing for Hermione to do but plaster a false, toothy smile over her face, take his proffered elbow, and saunter nonchalantly into the awaiting crowd and media, as if she wished for nothing more in her life than to be linked arm in arm with the most detestable wizard in the entire room. Land. World.

* * *

…

Oh, how she smiled.

She smiled her way through the unmasking, and the scramble of vulturous reporters.

She smiled her way through the Minister of Magic's speech on the "continuing triumphs of equality effectuated legislature", trying not to flinch every time Mr. Barrowland raised his glass and wriggled his eyebrows encouragingly at her whenever the word "muggle-born" was mentioned.

She then attempted to smile her way through the two requisite dances with Lucius, although the constant flurry of camera clicks and flash photography made her almost sick to the stomach at the thought of the articles sure to appear in the next Prophet.

_"HAVING A BALL TOGETHER: Ministry's Most Prominent Pureblood & Muggle-born Dance Away Their Differences!"_

_"BLOOD UNDER THE BRIDGE: Malfoy & Granger Find Common Ground—In Each Other's Arms!"_

She wondered which, if any, of her friends, would still speak to her after this. Not that it would make any difference to her social life since she'd effectively severed all contact with her friends since this whole Lucius-oriented-debacle began. ...But still, she wondered. And as she wondered, she smiled, until she thought her teeth might crack.

"Why so quite, my dear?" Lucius's silken voice infiltrated the dark mire of her thoughts. "Thinking up ways to Avada me, perchance?"

Hermione began to compose a rude retort, then decided better of it, surmising that the surest way to annoy him was, in fact, to ignore him. Instead, she fixed her eyes on a point somewhere beyond him and carried on bleakly smiling.

The silent treatment worked an absolute treat. Perhaps a little too well, actually. Because after three unsuccessful attempts to goad a response from her, Lucius stooped down and proceeded to pour forth into her ear a most explicit, descriptive and frankly pornographic monologue of what he intended to do to her once she lost his bet.

Hermione tried very hard to keep her countenance cool, but she could feel a flaming heat beginning in her face and spreading downwards over her whole body until she was completely ablaze with heat and aquiver with pulsating sensations. The waltzing couples, the surrounding journalists and spectators, all faded into an indistinct, hazy background as she became exclusively, painfully over-aware of him, and him alone...the thumb of his large hand surreptitiously stroking the hollow of her waist, the breadth of his solid chest pressed dominantly against her, his distracting scent, his mesmerizing voice...and most of all, the part of him that she had forbidden herself to think about, but which was making its bulging presence rather impossible to ignore...

She drank each filthy word silently in, lapping them all up despite herself, picturing everything he proposed with multi-dimensional, anatomical precision; getting hotter and wetter, dizzier and fainter, unable to resist pressing herself wantonly against him, desperate to feel that illicit thickness, that prohibited rigidity...Merlin, how she had _missed_ him, the fullness of him inside her...oh god his voice, those wicked words were too much, surely she wasn't going to—she _was_ going to—to-—"Nngff!" A small yelp escaped her mouth as an intense pleasure shuddered through her entire body, centering and concentrating in the place between her legs where his hand had recently promised, but not performed, so much.

 _Holy Helga_ , she thought breathlessly, _and here I was thinking that "creaming one's knickers" was simply a verbal expression..._

It took Hermione several moments to recover enough equilibrium to speak. "You're a...degenerate...scoundrel," she finally said, not quite able to stabilize her breathing.

Lucius's tongue glided suggestively along the tips of his perfect, white teeth. "You're _welcome_ , my dear," he replied, leaving her with zero doubt that he knew exactly what had just happened.

At that moment, Hermione came to a realization. The safest way—the _only_ way—to ensure her victory, was to leave. Run away. Get the hell out of this...serpent's lair. Much as it pained her to admit, she couldn't trust herself not to play into his hands, to sabotage her chances of winning his wager...and who knew what other devious designs he had up his lacy cuffs to enforce her defeat?

As the waltz concluded, Hermione's determination was further strengthened by Lucius's calculating smile and his proprietorial squeeze of her hand as he bowed over it. _This is all just a big game to him_ , she thought bitterly. _And he's not winning! Not this time! I am OUT of here._

And with that, she snatched her hand from him, straightened her spine haughtily, and turned to stride resolutely away. Straight into Barrowland.

"Careful, Miss Granger!" the Chairman exclaimed jovially, steadying her. "We don't want our prize fil–ahem—witch to break her lovely legs now, do we? Eh?"

 _Was...was he about to call me a 'filly'?_ Hermione was momentarily too thunderstruck to reply.

"Excellent job, by the way, young lady!" the wizard continued, with a significant wink. "Not such a difficult task after all, eh? Purebloods not so monstrous up close, hmm?" His knowing chuckle grated her very soul. "But Malfoy does have a way with you ladies. Eh, eh?"

"As you say, Mr. Barrowland," she gritted out.

The Chairman beamed into her cleavage approvingly. "I must say that, er—dress, would you call it?—is most interesting. A muggle creation, I suppose. Most—heh—eye-catching."

 _I hadn't picked you for an old pervert, Barrowland._ "Thank you, Sir," she replied, tasting actual bile on her tongue. "I made it myself."

"Did you indeed? And why not, say I! 'Muggle-pride' and 'Witch-power', and all that, eh? Well, you won't catch _me_ complaining!"

 _Deep breaths, Hermione. Hexing the Chairman of the DIMC is not a valid career option at this point in time._ "Mr. Barrowland, IF you'll excuse me, I believe the auction is about to begin, and I'm—"

"Just a moment, young lady; I have a particular favour to beg of you."

She could have screamed in frustration. _...Deep breaths..._ "Yes?"

Mr. Barrowland shuffled conspiratorially closer. "You may recall that the Board is contributing a sizable donation to the St Mungo's Hospital Refurbishment Fund?"

"Uh—I think so...didn't we vote on it some months back?"

"Indeed we did, Miss Granger," he said. "Well, the long and, ah...short of it is," (glancing at the hemline of her skirt) "I very much desire your assistance in presenting the cheque."

"Me? I—I—you do? When?"

" _Now,_ dear girl."

Hermione frowned warily. "What would I have to do?"

"Just hold the cheque and look your delectable self," Barrowland replied, with a loathsome leer. "That should be a piece of cauldron cake for a pretty little lady like you, eh, Miss Granger?"

_Ew, ew, ew! You flash a little flesh and suddenly your boss is a total creep! ...But a creep who needs to be kept onside..._

Hermione took a deep breath. She supposed it would be a good look for her public profile—well, a better look than dancing with a Death Eater, at any rate. "Alright," she agreed at last, vetoing an alarm flashing in her brain, warning her against it. "I suppose I can do it." Then, as if to reassure herself of her own motives she added, "For the hospital."

"Good girl!"

Hermione heaved a mental sigh. _If there's one thing that it appears that I'm not,_ she thought irritably, _it's a "good girl."_


	10. Win Or Lose, You Lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Thanks to everyone who has been following and commenting! It means so much to me to know you're enjoying it :) I only do it for the lols and the love. I know I promised wall-to-wall smut but nothing ever goes quite to plan...I blame Lucius. Someone go pull his hair.  
> Love to my unfailingly awesome beta StoryWriter831. JK Rowling owns everything.  
> xox artful  
> PS sooo...who is gonna win the wager? Read on at your own risk! ;)

The presentation began smoothly enough.

Hermione stood on one side of a raised dais, stifling her yawns as Barrowland made his long-winded, self-aggrandizing speech into a Sonorophone attached to a large, marble lectern. She held the over-sized cheque in front of her, glad for its protection against several journalists trying to snap the money-shot up her skirt (or "scandalously short muggle attire" as it was sure to be described in the accompanying caption).

She tuned in and out, distracted by—but determined not to look at—a certain glittery area near the front of the gathered throng, where Lucius stood, no doubt sneering up at her with all his Slytheriny might.

What a prick he was, playing her that Sobrium trick, out on the terrace. Although she guessed she should be grateful he hadn't simply taken her there and then. It wasn't like she had been objecting very hard. Or at all, if she was honest. ...In fact, why hadn't he taken her? She doubted it was because she was intoxicated; the man had as many scruples as a Dementor had funny-bones. She could only suppose he was holding out for the bigger prize...this "wager" of his...

Ugh. How. How had everything got so out of hand this evening?

How dare he say such...obscene things to her? And how had she allowed herself to _listen_? ... _That's putting it euphemistically,_ she thought self-reproachfully, remembering that she had done a whole lot more than simply "listen" to his words. And there was no befuddling champagne to conveniently blame for _that_...

_...Good Godric, but that was some sexy dirty talk, though... NO. No you're not going there, Mind! We've already decided that we're getting out of here, just as soon as Barrowland finally stops droning like a wheezy bagpipe. You're winning that damned wager, and sending Lucius Prize Arsehole Malfoy packing—and then you will NEVER have anything to do with him, ever again..._

"Without further ado, I give you Mr. Lucius Malfoy!"

Hermione almost jumped out of her skin as Barrowland's magnified voice announced the name. _What the hell? What!?_

She stared, aghast, as Lucius made an elegant, general bow, and advanced towards the dais. As he mounted the steps, she saw him level his gleaming gaze straight at her, premeditated victory written all over his curving mouth.

Lucius swept past her to Barrowland's side, then unhurriedly turned to face the crowd. "My fellow Gentlewizards and Witches," he began, his voice brimming with suave superciliousness. "Before we progress to this evening's auction, I have an announcement to make to you all..."

Hermione felt the blood forsake her cheeks, and her heart began to thud wildly. What was the blackguard up to now?

"As you all know, my colleagues and I" (with a gracious nod at Barrowland) "at the Department of International Magical Cooperation, are usually focused on the problems of _other_ nations; the affairs of _other_ countries. All too often our gaze is directed away from the issues which face the citizens living within the bounds of our own beloved shores." There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd, to which Lucius acquiesced with a brief, smiling pause. "Tonight, however," he silkily continued, "we have all gathered with the ambition—nay, the resolution—of concerting our endeavours to the benefit of an inward-looking cause; to address the many challenges faced—and faced bravely—by our _own_ people, our _own_ community..."

 _He's worse than Barrowland with his flowery speech_ , Hermione thought sourly, as a ripple of applause circulated the room. _Just get on with it, you arrogant arse._

"With such a beneficent aim in mind, and to celebrate the Ministry's ongoing work to nurture blood-status-equality and a fairer future for all, I have the great honour in announcing the establishment of a new charitable concern—one of which I myself am the personal founder, and shall remain the major benefactor hereafter."

There was a general hum of curiosity, and again Lucius placidly waited for it to run its course. Then, with a graceful hand gesture, suggestive of humbleness, but somehow conveying the complete reverse, he announced: "Ladies and Gentlewizards, allow me to present to you...The Hermione Granger Hardship Grant For Underprivileged Muggle-born Witches!"

The blood which had left Hermione's cheeks now returned in a rush of crimson rage. She stared at Lucius, numbly watching him nodding his acknowledgment of the resounding applause. _HARDSHIP? UNDERPRIVILEGED?_ _Why...that...utter...BASTARD...!_

Through the red mist clouding her vision she saw Barrowland vigorously shaking Lucius's hand and grinning broadly for the cameras...and despite the rage roaring in her ears she heard the Chairman's words filtering through with a kind of fatalistic inevitability: "And here to THANK Mr Malfoy on our collective behalf, we have the namesake and inspiration of this wonderful project in person...our very own poster-witch for Muggle-born achievement...Miss Hermione Jean Granger!"

"It's Ms," Hermione corrected dazedly, as someone took the cheque from her, and someone else nudged her towards where Lucius and Barrowland stood side by side, like a wall of patriarchal, Pureblood, prejudiced pomposity; one gazing complacently at her legs, the other smirking into her face, silver eyes aglitter with mocking triumph.

 _Wizards,_ she thought. _Sometimes you'd just love to high-five them. In the face. With a frying pan._

* * *

...

By the time Hermione reached the lectern the red mist of rage and buzzing in her ears had cleared away enough for her to gather her scattered wits together.

As she passed between the two wizards she even managed a sweet smile at Barrowland whilst forcefully stamping on Lucius's shoe with her stilettoed heel. She had always hated public speaking, but his indrawn breath of pain was wonderfully calming to her nerves.

So, he really thought she was going to thank him for that piece of unmitigated arrogance, did he? Well, she'd show him _exactly_ how grateful she was.

She cleared her throat, then, leaning towards the Sonorophone, she began.

"Thank you— _Mr. Barrowland_ , for giving me the opportunity to say a few words in response to Mr. Malfoy's unprecedented gesture. Firstly, I believe some words of _thanks_ are in order to the following people: the Minister of Magic, the members of the Cabinet, and every single witch and wizard serving on the Department of Magical Games and Sports, the Department of Accidents and Catastrophes, the Department of Law Enforcement, the Department of Transportation, as well as the Department for the Control of Magical Creatures, and, of course, the Department of Mysteries." She paused, as if thinking for a moment, then added, "And also every one of you out there _in front_ of me."

She half-turned to catch Lucius's glittering eyes. "I haven't forgotten anyone, have I?" she asked with exaggerated earnestness. His mouth curled with aggravated amusement, and Hermione flicked her hair defiantly at him. "Oh yes—tonight's caterers. Mustn't forget _them_."

She clapped demurely, setting off a round of general applause. When it had petered out she continued, "As for Mr. Malfoy himself...I think I can say with complete conviction that he will _never know_ how grateful I really am. I literally have _no words_ to do my feelings justice."

As another round of applause rippled throughout the assembly, Lucius moved in behind Hermione, under the guise of demonstrating solidarity with her, but actually utilizing the opportunity to begin to slowly snake one hand down the low back of her dress. She tried to surreptitiously elbow him away but he planted himself resolutely behind her, using his size and proximity to restrict her movement, and she was rather alarmed to feel his fingers begin to infiltrate her knickers.

She dragged her mind kicking and screaming back to focus on her speech. "In light of Mr. Malfoy's...ahem...generosity," she said somewhat breathlessly, "a-and in the spirit of ongoing collaboration, I too have decided to establish and personally fund a project which will further bridge the gap between people of different blood heritage..."

Lucius's hand squeezed the bare flesh of her bottom as it slid inexorably down over her curves, making her flush furiously,—but doggedly, determinedly she continued. "Witches and Gentle-wizards, I would like to announce to you all...The Malfoy Educational Trust For Reforming Prejudiced Purebloods!"

A third round of applause burst forth, and she heard Lucius softly growl as his fingers reached lower, making contact with the soft heat of her recently-dampened parting, forcing her to turn a surprised squeak into an implausible-sounding sneeze.

As the applause again died down, Hermione tried to discreetly have another stab at his feet with her heels, but Lucius kicked the spikes away with the points of his diamond-buckled shoes, unbalancing her so she was forced to cling to the lectern, and thereby parting her legs for even better access. His warm breath tickled her bare neck as his wicked fingers continued caressing her slick entrance as she attempted to finish off her speech.

"I—in conclusion, I haah-hope you're all having a lovely...nn- _nngg..._ night, and let's all make the _argh!_ -auction a great success. And...and...and. That is all."

Desperate not to let him get the better of her in front of an entire ballroom full of spectators, Hermione wriggled forwards just enough to give her room to sharply jab both elbows into Lucius's ribs and managed to extract herself out of his grasp. Cheeks flaming and insides melting, she bolted across the dais and down the stairs on quivering legs, more giddy than enraged, and more aroused than giddy.

She supposed she ought to feel triumphant for winning the wager—for having managed to thank everyone _except_ Lucius—but all she felt was a hollow pang of regret, that she wouldn't get that night with him doing all those things he had promis—erm, threatened.

...Hermione could hardly hear anything over the tumult of her mind roaring in her ears, only vaguely registering Mr. Barrowland's voice announcing the commencement of the auction. She didn't feel like she had won their wager at all, in fact, she felt like she was teetering on the brink of spectacularly failing, forfeiting the win, surrendering herself up, and to hell with everything.

_Damn that lecherous, lascivious, sneaking, sexy SHUSH well he is SHUSH I TELL YOU, rotten piece of manipulation personified! This is all just part of his plan! He wants me to go crawling back, begging for him to—to—_

"Give us a smile, gorgeous!" "Over 'ere, princess!"

There was a flurry of bright flashes as several photographers snapped at her from an angle which seemed to negate the need for her to face to do anything. Never-the-less she twisted her mouth upwards and pushed through the throng, ignoring the questions of the reporters and the congratulations of her peers, heedless of anything except a frantic, almost frenzied, need to get the hell out, to breathe some air that wasn't contaminated with the sweet poison of _him..._

As she reached the glass doors leading to the ballroom's antechamber she could see in the reflection Lucius's figure descending the podium rather swiftly, and she instinctively knew he was coming after her, that he did not intend to let her out of his reach—that after her body's traitorous responsiveness to his touch, all bets—all _wagers_ —were off.

 _Get out, get out, get out,_ she told herself, dashing through the antechamber, pushing through a second pair of doors to the low-lit outer vestibule, skittering hurriedly across the marble floor. The grand, gilt-framed entrance doors loomed in front of her, so very close, so impossibly far away...

"Miss _Gran_ _—_ ger..."

The two, suavely-drawled words stopped her entirely in her tracks, as if he had incanted sticking charms on her shoes.

"Where are you _going_ , Miss Granger?" Each softly-clipped, silky syllable served to entwine and root her all the more completely to the spot, and the open doors seemed to be slowly moving further and further away.

"Home," she said, not turning. Her voice was an incongruous mixture of vehemence and resignation.

"Why such a hurry, my dear? Don't you want to celebrate your little victory?" The way he said "little victory" could have as easily been, "utter defeat."

She could hear him walking towards her, the hollow click of his jeweled shoes getting louder as he approached.

"No," she said, in the same wavering, diametric tone.

"But this may be the last time we ever see each other, now that I am to resign my post. Surely, a harmless drink with a departing colleague—"

"No!"

He reached her at last, and she jumped a little at the warmth of his hands on her bare shoulders. Gently and oh-so-slowly he turned her around to face him. "Miss Granger..." he bent over her, his mouth drawing tantalizingly close to her lips, "Why don't you come back to my Manor tonight? My wife is staying in town—"

Hermione started again at his mention of Narcissa. With a sharp intake of breath she stepped back from him, and for the second time that evening she whipped her hand across his cheek, with far more accuracy and force than her previous drunken slap.

"You arrogant bastard!" she hissed at him, too enraged to feel any fear at the naked flames blazing in his eyes. "How dare you treat me like a...a cheap call-witch!? Do you really think I'm going to just d-d-drop everything and run to your bed simply because your WIFE wants to get off _elsewhere_ tonight? I am _not_ going to let you _use_ me anymore—I refuse to be your dirty little secret—"

Lucius's hands shot out, his fingers clamping around her arms, and he cut her off with a brief, hard shake. "You quite mistake the matter, my dear," he snarled softly. "You are not _my_ dirty little secret... _I_ am _yours."_

She blinked up at him in sudden confusion. "W-what do you mean?"

"I _mean,_ that you have been using me quite as much, if not _more_ than I have you."

"U-ugh! That is not even the littlest bit true!"

"Oh, yes it is, _Miss_ Granger," he replied in the same darkly-simmering tone. "Let us survey the facts, shall we? _You_ began this. You broke into my office that night, seeking to injure my reputation, _you_ tricked me into unwitting sexual congress—both crimes for which better people than you would have paid with time in Azkaban. Were my retributive demands really so unjust? Or would you have rather spent the last six months rotting away in a jail cell?"

She gulped at the stark, ugly truth of his words. "B-but after that—"

"After _that_ ," he overrode her, " _you_ bribed me to secure your bill, _you_ forced me to participate in yet another non-consensual interaction, _you_ stole my property—and now you have the audacity to complain that _I_ have treated _you_ unfairly, simply for chastising you for your manifold wrongdoings? You dare allege that _I_ have used _you?_ " He drew her close to him, his voice dropping to a low, soft, faintly-menacing purr. "Oh, I have been more than magnanimous in my tolerance for your tiresome little games, mudblood...do not you think I have earned the right to invite you to my bed without hazarding physical and verbal assault?—The answer, my dear, is _'yes'._ "

So saying, his arms wrapped around her in a vanquishing embrace, and he crushed his mouth down onto her lips, parting them with a hard, impellent tongue which demanded and insisted and entirely overruled any and every objection...his teeth mercilessly scraped her lips and she nipped him angrily back, struggling against him as her breath supply began to run low...but he refused to release her, merely squeezed her the tighter to him, until she was dizzy and faint and melted against him, and the whole world spun darkly and deliciously around her...

When he finally drew back Lucius was breathing as hard as she, and his smouldering expression brooked absolutely no more resistance. Hermione was trembling all over, fighting to stand upright...his sweet, spicy perfume and cinnamony, cigary, spirity scent coiled intoxicatingly around her; his silver gaze engulfed her and she felt herself falling, falling into their molten, mesmeric depths...

...Perhaps...he did have a point...perhaps she _had_ been using him...to sate her, to fulfill her...to answer a deep and desperate need she hadn't known existed until she accidentally forced him to show her...

Yes...yes, she needed him. She needed to use him again...just once. Once more.

And yet.

"Alright...I accept your _invitation_ ," she murmured quietly, her pulse racing and her blood thrumming with elation and relief as she finally, finally capitulated to him, not even caring about the devilish triumph which curved his mouth. "But...I have one condition."

"Name it."

She didn't know exactly why, but she couldn't find her voice to say it out aloud. Using his wide shoulders for balance she stretched up and whispered in his ear, five words.

She felt his muscles stiffen just a little. Then he nodded. He pressed a finger to her cheek and turned her face towards him. She thought she saw a sliver of regret in the deepening grooves around his mouth. "Agreed," he replied, against her lips.

He steered her out the exit, then, pulling her tightly against him, he disapparated them both away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Oooh...what could her one stipulation be?! Love to hear your thoughts! Hope you enjoyed. :) xox artful


	11. From The Sublime To The Oblivious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Hi my lovelies! I come bearing gifts...very filthy gifts made out of exceedingly naughty words! I've actually cranked the smut up a level in this chapter, but I'm sure it will seem tame to all you hardened consumers of fanfiction literotica. I've seen what's out there! *arches eyebrow knowingly*
> 
> Now, I'm afraid we're coming to the end of this extremely silly romp! It was originally just a one-shot, and I didn't have any proper plot sketched out, so it's been more of an exercise in finding ways to create compromising scenes between our protagonists, than anything more substantial. This is the penultimate chapter; the next will be the finale/epilogue. That being said, I neither confirm nor deny the possibility of a sequel on the cards called "Playing Fast And Lucius". ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoy! xox artful

Hermione was spinning and falling, spinning and falling, and it wasn't the giddiness of Apparation or the after-effects of strawberry champagne.

It was day upon desolate day, night upon tortured night, week upon hellish week, of pent-up need and fury and frustration, reaching its zenith and bursting spectacularly into flames. Since the moment Lucius had collided into her life like a meteor, she had been hurtling out of orbit in a hopelessly uncontrollable trajectory—and now, finally, the safety-fuse had blown, the engine was on fire, and here she was, spinning and falling, spinning and falling, clinging for dear life to the cause of her fiery tailspin.

It was Her and Him and to hell with anything else.

She had no idea if they were in a bedroom, a ballroom, or a cupboard; no clue if they were on a bed or floor or a table. All she knew was his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her skin, and the imperative thickness of him straining through the ridiculous satin breeches of his costume.

Her own scant clothes seemed to brush away like gossamer under his heavy, caressing palms; in seconds she was nakedly arching against him as his mouth began a hot, wet trail down her neck, surmounting the swell of her breast to circle one sensitive nipple in wicked spirals...

The fingers of his left hand closed over her other nipple, in turn sharply pinching and softly fondling, and she cried out as his right hand delved unceremoniously into her knickers, his fingers sinking into the wet heat of her.

Through a haze of desire she saw his lips curl in triumph, heard his voice mutter, more darkly than mockingly, "So, I'll never touch you again, little witch?"

Stroke went his fingers. Lap went his tongue. Mewl went her mouth.

"You wouldn't sleep with me,"—stroke, lap, mewl—"if I was the last man on earth?...Hmmm?"—pinch, gasp, whimper—"Weren't those your exact words, my sweet"—stroke—"little"—lap—"mudblood?" There was something so strangely tender and even reverent in the way he murmured that word, so opposite to the drawling contempt that usually accompanied it, that she wouldn't have objected even if she could...but, as it happened, _she couldn't_ , because now Lucius was licking his way down her stomach, his tongue flicking into the shallow dip of her belly button...then trailing further southward, painting an exquisite, wet line down her abdomen until he had her exactly where he wanted her—and where she absolutely needed _him_.

In a kind of detached trance, she watched Lucius's fists close around the lacy side-seams of her knickers, oh-so-casually rending them apart and tossing them away. His eyes dilated to pools of silver-ringed darkness as he pushed her thighs wide and splayed her open before him, emitting a deep growl as he stared down at her exposed and glistening sex.

Hermione's breath came in small gasping pants; she wriggled beneath him, hardly knowing what to do with herself during the interminable interval of anticipation, her fingers bunching the silken hair which spilled down on her bare skin in just that same beautiful way it had once before, driving her nearly mindless with desire.

Momentarily his eyes flickered up to connect with hers, and her breath caught at the molten intensity, the heated and somewhat alarming mix of victory and possessiveness that sent a shiver through her entire body, even as she edged ever closer to the brink of beckoning ecstasy.

And then his head dipped down, Hermione's eyelids fell shut as her mouth fell open, and that was all it took—the first exquisite contact of his tongue flickering into her—to send her careening over the edge; her body quaked violently, her blood roared deafeningly in her ears, and she was crying out, shuddering with a pleasure so intense and saturating she could do nothing but let it entirely overtake her.

Time itself seemed to stall, the universe was imploding around and within her. Vaguely she was aware of Lucius's fingers biting into her thighs, preventing her from squirming away from the too-consuming pleasure which he mercilessly inflicted on her with wicked, masterly laps of his tongue.

It was a kind of excruciating torture, punishing as much as rewarding her, vanquishing as much as satiating her. Each eloquent lick was a tacit _'HEADS I WIN, TAILS YOU LOSE'_ drawn upon her sex, and she could no more refute or deny it than she could put a physical stop to it.

"Too much," she chokingly whispered, as she shuddered and shivered helplessly against him, again, again and yet again. "Please...god...Lucius...it's too...too much..."

She feared if he didn't stop she might simply die. Just...die.

With feeble desperation, she curled her fingers and clawed at his cheeks.

In a second he was up and over her, roughly pinning her wrists above her head, his eyes agleam with furious desire.

"Little savage," he snarled, "do you imagine you have a _choice_? That you _ever_ had one?" He leaned down to crush his mouth on hers, his tongue as hard and impellent now as it had been softly insinuating moments earlier. She could taste herself on him, feel the slickness of her arousal on his lips. And it made her moan.

Now trapping her wrists together with a single hand, Lucius reached down to swiftly free himself from his expensive, satin prison. Momentarily he shifted his weight, grasping one of her knees and hooking it over his strong forearm. "...You never had a choice, Miss Granger," he said darkly, as he aligned his heavy rigidity with her hot, wet seam. "You were _always_ mine for the taking."

And then with a single, brutal thrust forward, he anchored himself fully inside her.

Hermione's mouth opened into a voiceless scream, as finally she was filled and stretched the way she had been dreaming of for so, oh-so-very long now, her core clamping greedily around the wonderfully thick, substantial intrusion of him, revelling in the sweet hurt of being crammed to total capacity, of the itch finally scratched to the point of rawness, of the addiction finally fixed to the point of overdose.

" _There_ —there's your choice," he mocked her, slowly and almost fully withdrawing, then thrusting into her with another powerful, propelling shunt. "Despise me, do you?" Shunt. "Spurn me, will you?" Shunt. "And yet here"—shunt—"we"—shunt—"are."

He began to pick up speed, driving into her at a measured yet relentless pace, and all she could do was accept it, accept him, take him in, her hips lifting and legs wrapping around his waist, meeting him halfway, thrust for beautiful, hard thrust.

 _Yes—yes—here—we—are,_ Hermione's so-often-opposed mind and body concurred in absolute capitulation to his words. _Finally—yes, ngggg—full—so full—god—yessss!_

Perhaps wishing to stave off the inevitable conclusion towards which they hurtled at breakneck speed, Lucius slowed down, now plowing slowly and deeply into her with deliberate, long strokes.

"Tell me," he growlingly demanded, his lips brushing hers as he delved into her, his voice stilted with exertion. "Tell me you love it."

"Yesss...yes...I love it..."

"What do you love, Miss Granger?" She gasped as he pinched one taut nipple with precise, almost gentlemanly, vindictiveness. "Tell me!"

"I love...you fucking me..." she whispered against his mouth, "...feels...so good...ssso big... _nngf!_ "

The corners of his mouth ticked up as he sank himself inside her again. "You love my cock, is that it, Miss Granger?"

"Yessss...ahhh! Gods, yes!"

"And who am I?" He drew slowly out.

"L-L-Lucius M-Malfoy," she stammered, the dragging friction almost too much for her to bear.

"Correct." He plunged ruthlessly in. "And _what_ am I?"—Drawing torturously out again.

Instinctively she knew what answer he required, and without falter she supplied it. "A pureblood...a pureblood Death Eater..."

"Yes! Say it," he hissed urgently in her ear, as he began picking up the pace and rhythm once more. "Say you love my pureblood cock. Tell me how _much_ you need it."

"I love it!" she almost sobbed with pleasure, "I need it!"

"Then take it, witch!" He pounded ferociously into her, his arms braced above her, his hands wrapped around each of her wrists in bruising purchase. "Take it, and never— _never_ —forget. You're mine, do you hear? _Mine._ I will never _let you_ forget it."

His words, qualified as they were by the five-word agreement in place, could not frighten or abase her, whatever his intentions might be in spilling them into her ear. At that moment, they were simply a fact—she _was_ his—; a fact which pertained only to this one, suspended moment in time, which had no bearing on her past or future, meant nothing beyond the here and now, but which nonetheless did not make them less true. Instead, she was helplessly, hopelessly enraptured by them, by the intense possessiveness of him staking his complete claim upon her; she writhed and arched up to him as he hammered home his point.

And then she was teetering once more on the brink of some desperately imperative crisis—only this time the glittering darkness seemed to surround and enclose around her; she was trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea...and the devil had his arms around her and was dancing her backward into drowning depths of ecstasy...

She registered Lucius tautening and spasming, heard his groan of completion, felt the cementing spurts of him climaxing inside her, and she cried out her own shuddering, dizzying pleasure, bearing her aloft on a tidal surge that swept her up to an impossible height, then swallowed her down into the shimmering, dark abyss...

* * *

...

_...Did I...did I just black out?..._

This was the first mortifying thought which entered Hermione's mind as her eyelids fluttered open.

She groaned. Just what she needed: something _else_ to stoke Lucius's overly-inflamed ego to further heights. _Hhhhh._

Pushing herself up on her elbows, she dazedly perceived that the man responsible for her lapse in consciousness (for how long she had no idea) was no longer with her.

Blinking, she took in her surroundings for the first time. Apparently, they had apparated straight into a bedchamber. The room was larger than the one in his London townhouse—the one in which he had trapped her with his Port Key—grander, and more luxuriously appointed. She was lying on a bed of such improbable magnitudes she had the strange notion of having shrunk to elf-size.

Beside the bed was a small side-table on which sat a tumbler of some tawny-coloured liquid, evidently meant for her. Sitting up, she reached for the glass with annoyingly-trembly hands and gulped the contents back, gasping and tearing up a little—it was incredibly strong, probably a single-malt Firewhisky—but immediately she felt its reviving effects.

Even now, clawing her way back from oblivion, her body thrummed with a wonderful satiation and twinged with yearning need. _This is what it's like to be an addict,_ she thought. _The cravings never really stop..._

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and slid off to stand. On the floor were the remnants of her costume, and she blushed at the sight of her ripped knickers nearby, recalling vividly the torturous pleasure which had ensued after their destruction.

...Where had the insufferably smug rogue got to, anyway?

As if in answer to her question, Hermione became aware of a noise coming from behind the closed door of an adjoining room...of...of pattering water? Then she noticed billows of steam escaping from beneath the doorframe.

 _Merlin, be merciful,_ she suddenly realized. _He's taking a shower._

A spectacular mental image of Lucius, naked and glistening, made her mouth go suddenly very dry, and other parts of her exceedingly moist. Hastily pulling a sheet around her naked body, she padded across the floor towards the door.

Numbly, hardly knowing what she was doing, she silently knelt down to peep inside the keyhole.

Her breath caught. The ornate bathroom was predominantly tiled with black marble, against which Lucius's pale body gleamed in all its wet, steamy majesty. His back was turned to her, and she copped her first indulgent eyeful of long legs and well-muscled thighs, a bottom worthy of a Greek hero effigy, a tapering waist widening out to powerfully broad shoulders, to which his blond hair clung in wet, shiny rivulets.

Hermione swallowed down the sigh which threatened to escape her lips. _Oooh_...but he really _was_ such a beautiful bastard...

Just then he half-turned, and this time she couldn't contain an audible gasp, as the rest of him—jutting magnificently, even at half-mast—came into plain view. She clamped her hand over her mouth but was almost certain he had heard her, for his body tensed and his head tilted ever-so-slightly to one side.

But she couldn't have looked away now if someone Imperiused her to, for (it seemed to happen in slow-motion) Lucius leaned forward so one hand was braced against the tiles, as his other reached down to wrap around his formidable length...and, as the water cascaded down on every smooth plane and defined contour of him, he began to slowly stroke himself with languid, unhurried movements of his strong wrist.

Hermione was faintly surprised to discover she hadn't exploded like a regenerating phoenix.

Good Godric, but she wanted to...to taste him again. To add to her store of knowledge of What Lucius Tastes Like, which currently included 'Au Naturale' and 'Lathered In Chocolate', but did not yet encompass 'Lightly Steamed With Hot Water'.

A wicked smile curved Lucius's lips. "You might as well kneel in here, as out there, my dear," he drawled in a sinfully inviting voice, never taking his eyes from the wall in front of him. There was a clicking sound and the snib on the door unlatched of its own accord.

Hermione was up and inside quicker than a niffler at a treasure hunt.

Lucius did not acknowledge her rather inelegantly abrupt intrusion and hasty abandonment of her sheet. Merely he continued to caress himself, his hand moving back and forth, back and forth, at a mesmerically _andante_ tempo, which seemed to correspond with a rhythmic throbbing inside her.

As she sank to her knees before him, Hermione had to control a rather hysterical urge to giggle. There was something so wildly, ridiculously erotic in the notion of orally pleasuring the gleaming wet wizard under a stream of steamy hot water that she hardly believed she was really about to do so...however the giggle was most effectively prevented by a mouthful of Lucius.

His hiss of approval sent a shiver of pleasure through her entire body.

She took him in, inch by expanding inch, until her lips met the fingers still fisted around his thick base. With the water beating down on her upturned face she was forced to close her eyes, which heightened the wonderful taste of him as she slowly drew back, flicking her tongue and dragging her lips, collecting droplets of water that mixed delightfully with a headier, saltier flavour which made her moan wantonly around him.

Lucius's long fingers threaded in her now-soaking hair; guiding her lips back up his shaft, feeding himself into her willing mouth. One of Hermione's hands braced around his thick, muscular thigh, steadying herself, as the other hand dropped down between her legs. Laving and licking his length, she stroked out an indulgent rhythm on herself— _Gods_ but he tasted so wonderful, so delicious—how he made her so wet again...so ready...

"Yesss..." he hissed sibilantly as she experimentally swirled her tongue on the underside of his length even as she crammed him as far to the back of her throat as she could. Pleased with the appreciative noises escaping his lips, she held him there for as long as she could, until she was forced to draw back to take a gasping, sputtering breath, while her tongue continued to caress his engorged head. Then, taking a deeper gulp, she began eagerly repeating the process, each time holding him for that bit longer, sensing him getting that much closer...

And as she did, she continued to busily fondle her own fluttering, wet slit, bringing herself to the point of readiness with her fingers as she brought him to a parallel point with her mouth. She basked in the knowledge that this fastidious, exacting man was quickly losing control of himself; her self-esteem demanded that she be the one to catalyze it, and as his groans of pleasure increased, she started frantically rubbing herself, almost frenzied with the desire to come to the first taste of his essence on her tongue...

Suddenly, Lucius pushed her against the wall and bucked into her throat with several long, deep thrusts. Then, drawing entirely out, he bunched her hair at the nape in one fist, and with the other, he pumped his length once—twice—thrice—and with a loud, deep groan he spurted into her open and waiting mouth.

The moment that she tasted the creamy, musky fluid sliding over her tongue and into the back of her throat, Hermione's core clenched wildly around her fingers, making her whole body quake with violent spasms.

"Swallow," Lucius demanded hoarsely, and she immediately did as she was bid, closing her lips and letting the pearlescent fluid slip down her throat in a single gulp. It was the first time she had ever seen the act through to such a conclusion, and she had been unprepared for how incredibly sexy and strangely... _powerful_ she felt. Lucius was leaning against the opposite wall, his body shaking, breathing in deep gasps. He looked absolutely done in, and it made Hermione feel slightly better about the whole blacking out thing.

After a minute or so of mutual gasping recovery, Lucius held out his hand in an unexpectedly gallant gesture, bringing Hermione to stand and pulling her against his entirely wonderful, naked body. But he immediately negated this gallantry by stooping to mutter in her ear, "Now you'll never forget the taste of me, either."

Just secretly, she rather hoped that were true.

* * *

…

Ensconced in the softest dressing gown known to magician-kind (she guiltily suspected it was made from endangered Diricawl down), Hermione sat next to Lucius on a long, sumptuous sofa stationed closely to the great marble hearth in which a low-burning fire flickered and softly crackled.

She sat with her back against the sofa's plush roll-arm, her bare legs draped over Lucius's lap, sipping another glass of strong spirits which he had poured for each of them. She was drowsy and soporific, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the casual caress of his large hand on the smooth skin of her inner thigh.

Finishing her drink rather quickly, Hermione discarded her cut-crystal tumbler, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. But instead of succumbing to the exhaustion she expected to overtake her after such a long evening out followed by some seriously intense sex, she found herself unaccountably reviving, her body responding to Lucius's softly stroking touch. Soon enough she was wriggling nearer, trying to encourage a little more adventurousness from those oh-so-masterful fingers of his.

The wizard seemed in no hurry to finish his own drink; equally, he did not seem disinclined to indulge her. Without relinquishing the glass held elegantly in his right hand, Lucius's left hand moved gradually higher, sliding up to disappear beneath the hem of the dressing gown until his fingers connected with her now-very-much-tingling sex. Taking another leisurely sip of the liquid, he began to lightly tease her with his fingertips while brushing the fleshy part of his thumb up and down her seam in such a comfortingly pleasurable way that Hermione would have taken to purring if she could.

Her eyes half-opened to rest on his beautiful profile and she experienced a sudden kind of disorienting wonderment, that this indomitable, unutterably selfish, man—this arch enemy who represented all she despised—could be so intuitive of her needs and desires, and so ready to fulfill them. It really was a pity about the rest of his personality.

"Mmm..." she couldn't help making a small sigh of appreciation as he allowed her to arch against his caressing fingers and she saw his mouth curl at the corner as if pleased with her responsiveness to his subtle touch.

Swallowing the remaining Firewhiskey in his glass, Lucius set it on the side-table. Then, never ceasing his delightful dispensation of pleasure, he pulled her properly onto his lap and used his now-free hand to loosen the knot of her dressing gown. Pushing it open to entirely expose her body to his gaze, he drank her nakedness in, trailing down her creamy neck to linger on the softer, paler flesh or her breasts, then fixing upon her explicitly splayed sex, so willingly receiving the play of his fingers and stroke of his thumb.

His free hand reached down to mold both breasts with one large palm, then—she tensed in readiness for the sting—tweaked the sensitive tips with his fingers. "Ahh!" she gasped softly, letting one leg slip down to the floor to spread herself wider for him. He growled in response, and she was much mistaken if she didn't feel a promising hardening beneath his own thick dressing robe.

But his fingers were doing such a wonderful job that she was quite content to stay exactly the way she was and let him prove his dexterity and expertise without exerting any effort of her own. "Nng-aah!" she gasped again, her thighs beginning to tremble at the sweetly tightening coil of oncoming ecstasy. Sensing what she needed, Lucius proceeded to sink two long fingers into her wet opening, plunging and withdrawing rhythmically as sundry whimpers and squeals spilled from her mouth, until finally her hips lifted and she was calling his name as she shivered with a sweet, unwinding release; as lovely as it was entirely different from the desperate, mind-warping climax pounded into her upon the bed, or the frenzied crescendo she had self-induced in the shower to the taste of his come.

Moments later, panting with elation and exhaustion, and somewhat inclined to curl up and contentedly catnap, Hermione was rather surprised to discover that she was being gathered up, lifted and turned around to straddle Lucius's solid thighs.

"Not dozing off now, are you, lazy little mudblood?" he drawled as he unloosed the knot of his own dressing robe and shrugged himself out of it. "You don't suppose I brought you here tonight to watch you sleep?"

She was amazed to behold him as magnificently erect as he had been at the start of the night. Then it clicked. "What _else_ is in that whiskey?" she demanded.

Lucius's answering smirk was so irresistibly boyish it made her breath catch. "A blend of Wideye Potion and Excitant Elixer," he replied, his hands cupping her buttocks as he wasted no time in positioning his rigidity in line with her slick entrance. Then, adding rather boastfully, "—my own concoction, of course," he gritted his teeth and thrust up into her, making her cry aloud. As he let her settle on top of him, he leaned in to mutter into her ear, "I _told_ you I would have you all night, my dear, and I assure you I meant it in the literal sense."

Hermione arched back, revelling in the substantial, stretching thickness of him inside her once more. "I should've known," she gasped out, though not at all disapprovingly. "It tasted of—ah!—argh!—Aconite."

"Thank you; I think we all known what an incurable little swot you are," Lucius replied with a mocking slant of his brow. His left arm securely braced the small of her back, drawing her down until she was fully impaled by him, and she jumped as his right hand sharply slapped her flank. "Now, are you going to start moving, my dear, or do I need to transfigure my cane into a riding crop?"

* * *

...

It was the longest, most exhausting and exhilarating night of Hermione's life. By the end of it, Hermione felt there wasn't an accessible inch of her, inside or out, that hadn't been licked, kissed, fondled, bitten, pinched, tweaked, roundly ridden or rubbed to rawness. Lucius claimed her entirely, and she had no choice nor desire but to endorse his claim and concede her defeat, and to absolutely rejoice in the excruciatingly pleasurable concession.

When finally he allowed her to sink down into the depths of his enormous bed, she fell immediately into the deepest, most profound slumber such as had eluded her for so many, so countlessly-many nights, blissfully entwined in the arms of the all-conquering enemy.

* * *

...

"Are you ready, Miss Granger?" Lucius's silken voice thrummed with audible regret.

Hermione trembled as a chilly dawn breeze sent several leaves skittering along the empty, grey cobbled street on which they stood together. With the heat of his body warming her, she had to physically bite back the impulse to renege on their agreement.

She was utterly exhausted, sated, bruised and sore, yet _still_ she felt the irresistible pull of him, that incredible magnetism which she knew she had no chance of defeating without taking this final, crucial step.

"I'm ready," she whispered, relinquishing her wand to him with numb and trembling fingers. "Do it quickly." She squeezed her eyelids closed, held her breath, and waited.

But instead of the expected spell, his next words were a soft threat poured directly into her ear. "This isn't the last time," he muttered darkly. "You'll come back to me in the end, my little mudblood. I promise you."

"No," she countered, opening her eyes and glaring up at him determinedly. "Never again."

"' _Never?'_ Ah, but you've used that word before, Miss Granger. Your definition of ' _never'_ is charmingly devoid of its usual permanence."

"But this time I mean it."

Lucius stooped even more closely over her. "You still imagine you have a choice, do you, little one?" he hissed, and she squeaked as he suddenly pulled her flush against him and crushed his mouth on hers, his tongue plunging between her lips with a fervency that made her heart thud wildly and her knees liquify—and he did not let her go until she was dizzy and gasping, weakly leaning against the wide plane of his chest. "Rest assured, I shall take great pleasure in deconstructing _that_ delusion," he growled between harsh, panting breaths. "Just as I did last night."

The possessive, seductive poison of his words only served to solidify and finalize Hermione's determination. She _had_ to break free of her dangerous addiction once and for all.

"You're an arrogant git, Lucius Malfoy..." she coolly replied, stretching up to lightly brush his cheek with her lips, inhaling his intoxicating aftershave for, she regretfully supposed, the very last time. "...and a really, _really_ good lay. Now hurry up and perform the damn spell before I take back my wand and hit you in the family jewels with a Withering Hex."

A smile flickered at the corners of Lucius's mouth. She read the gleam of a challenge anticipated and relished in his silver eyes. "Ah...and you certainly wouldn't want that to happen, would you, my dear?" he replied with subtle emphasis.

She could have rolled her eyes, but instead, she closed them again. Best not to risk putting it off a moment longer. "Do it," she whispered. "Do it now."

One single, sibilant word suspended momentarily in the air before Hermione was swallowed up in darkness.

_"Obliviate..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N The five-word agreement was "Afterwards, You Will Obliviate Me". Hope you enjoyed the smutty hijinks! Please leave me a little somethin'-somethin' in the box below. xoxoxox 3


	12. EPILOGUE: Fools Rush In, But Gentlemen Gracefully Saunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N And here we are, my dear readers! The final chapter of this naughty novella. Woot! I owe so much to my beta StoryWriter831 without whom I am a hot mess of angst, insecurity, and indecision. She has helped shape this story so much (but don't blame her for the Obliviation, that was all my fault!) so big love and endless kudos to her. I also have a small but awesome band of regular reviewers and cheerleaders whose support has meant the world to me...you know who you are. This is dedicated to you guys.
> 
> Lotsa love and lols, xox artful
> 
> PS I have now gone back and lengthened and improved Chapter 11 :)

* * *

...

Waking up in St Mungo's Emergency Department with no recollection of the preceding six months of her life had been, Hermione thought, a total drag.

Primarily, she resented the loss of whatever information she had garnered over that substantial period, especially the headway she knew she must have made at her still-fairly-new position on the DIMC. Then there were all the spells, potion-making techniques, and wand-work which, according to her diary, she had continued to keep diligently abreast of. Not to mention her grasp of political and current affairs which was now _hopelessly_ out of date.

It was this last deficiency which Hermione was attempting to rectify as she sat by her fire surrounded by several stacks of Daily Prophets. She had worked her way from April through August and had one more week in which to cram in the remaining month before she started back at work.

She heaved a morose sigh. Scanning each headline for pertinent information was no easy task. She kept imagining her own story springing up before her eyes in nightmarishly-lurid font. _'POOR ME, POOR ME, POUR ME A DRINK: Ministry Poster Child Buckles Under Pressures Of New Position!'_ In her head, this was accompanied with a picture of her sprawled in a puddle of her own vomit.

She shuddered at the mental image, a cold sweat creeping over her body as she reflected on how narrowly she had missed making the front page.

Seemingly, she had been found unconscious but unharmed outside the entranceway to her flat.

"Magical Misadventure Under Incapacitating Influences" was the official finding. "Completely Shit-Faced" would be a less euphemistic way of putting it.

According to witnesses, she had had quite a few glasses of strawberry champagne at the Ministry Masque, and it was thought that upon returning to her flat she had somehow accidentally Obliviated herself while unlocking the front door. Unlocking the door, for crying out loud! Something she could do in her sleep! Just not an alcohol-induced one, apparently.

Hermione blushed, remembering her humiliation in having to admit the truth to the various concerned friends who visited her during her three-day stint in St Mungo's. She could've cheerfully punched their noses at their pitying expressions, their delicate hints about the stress of her new position causing her to behave erratically, and their gentle warnings on the dangers of drinking alone. _Self-righteous meddlers. As if none of them have ever had a little too much to drink and miscast a spell. Hmph!_

The only comfort she could take was that her boss, Mr. Barrowland had promised—thank god—to keep the story out of the papers. She had rather expected him to hand her her notice and was gratified to learn that her merits apparently outweighed her liabilities.

Hermione almost ripped the page of the newspaper as she turned it, her anger once more getting the better of her. How, how could her life have turned into such an—an exploded cauldron? She, who always strived so diligently to achieve perfection in everything, how could she have messed it all up so terribly? She didn't even particularly _like_ champagne!

And to make matters infinitely worse, it seemed (according to the papers, anyway) that that detestable, unmitigated _arse_ of a Death-Eating pig, Lucius sodding Malfoy, had somehow insinuated himself onto the DIMC! Just _how_ he'd managed that was beyond her. She could only suppose he blackmailed, bullied or bribed some half-witted imbecile into aiding his appointment.

Hermione wrenched another page irefully over, almost tearing it in half.

The mere thought of his sneering countenance filled her with utter wrath. Clearly her plan to find incriminating information on him with the aid of a little Polyjuice—the drinking of which, by the bye, was the last thing she could actually remember—hadn't worked at all. It had been a reckless venture anyway, and she supposed she should count herself lucky not to have been caught by the rotten son-of-a-snake. But, oh! How she dreaded having to sit at the same committee table as him, forced to listen to his delicately barbed quips, forced to encounter his supercilious expression whenever she met his eyes...

Arrogant! Conceited! Prejudiced! Did-she-mention-Arrogant! Scoundrel!

Another violent turn of the page brought her face-to-face with the man who was currently, and most unwelcomely, dominating her thoughts.

She eye-rolled at the photo. Him, foppishly overdressed and preening, waltzing past the camera with some half-naked floozy— _uuh?!_ A loud gasp escaped her lips. It was _her!_ The half-naked floozy _was HER!_ What in nine circles of hell was she wearing, or rather _not_ wearing? And more to the point— _why was she dancing with Lucius Malfoy?!_

No bloody way!

Her eyes were glued to the photo with horrified fascination. There was no mistaking it. _That_ was Lucius Malfoy, sweeping past the camera with the most obscenely smug smirk on his sharply chiselled face, and _that_ was Hermione Jean Granger, wearing not much more than a couple of sparkly red flowers held together with a scrap of lace, embraced in his arms. (Admittedly, she did look rather fabulous, and those shoes made her legs look like they went on forever, and her hair was actually quite sexy with that golden feather draping down her bare bac—) Um, _hello?_ Ground Control to Mind! We're still on the whole DANCING WITH LUCIUS MALFOY BOMBSHELL!

Hermione reined in her wildly-reeling thoughts and took a more scrutinizing look at her own expression. She was relieved to see that her smile was so false and sullen as to leave no doubt upon her real opinion of the situation. Clearly, it had been some stupid media stunt she'd been coerced into complying with.

The headline blared, _'TAKES TWO TO TANGO: Malfoy & Granger Go Toe-to-Toe With Dance of Progress at Ministry Masque.'_

Beneath it the article began, _"Controversial DIMC_ appointee _Lucius Malfoy and celebrated war heroine Hermione Granger last night demonstrated their solidity and unity with a symbolic waltz which political pundits are calling "a coup for the Ministry"...'_ The rest of it was a straight-up propaganda piece, detailing the Ministry's inroads with blood status relations and excusing Malfoy's appointment to the DIMC, as well as mentioning Hermione's _"interesting choice of muggle attire"_ no fewer than six times.

So THIS was why she was so indispensable to Barrowland! The bloody Ministry was using her to deflect Malfoy's unpopularity! And this— _this_ was the Masque at which she had got so drunk she couldn't perform a door-unlocking charm. Well, frankly, she couldn't blame herself! Getting boiled as a newt was probably the only way she could possibly have coped with having to dance with that—that—that _reprobate._

Hermione slammed the page over, not wanting to offend her eyes with the detestable picture another second.

Unfortunately, the following spread wasn't much better. Another huge photo of her, this time standing on a platform holding an oversized cheque. From the angle it was taken, the photo actually made her look like she was naked. The caption read, _'Miss Hermione Granger "bares" a generous donation for the St Mungo's Refurbishment Fund.'_

Ugh. Fucking gutter press, scraping the barrel with their sleazy innuendo instead of reporting actual _journalism._

She threw the whole sickening item away in disgust, knocking the remaining pile of unread newspapers over as she did. Grumbling, she reached for her wand to re-stack them but paused as her attention was arrested by a half-covered photograph on the front page of one paper, featuring what looked like a familiar cascade of blond hair.

 _Maybe an announcement of Lucius Malfoy's untimely demise_ , she thought hopefully.

She drew the paper out from under the others, noting as she did that the date was recent—in fact, only a few days ago. As she stared at the headline, Hermione's face broke into a smile of genuine delight, the first in the whole duration of her four-week, home-based "convalescence".

_'MALFOYS SEPARATE! Rumour-Mill Goes Into Overdrive As Power-Couple Confirm Divorce Proceedings!'_

"Hah!" Hermione exclaimed. "That should bend his broomstick!" Lucius Sacred-Twenty-Eight Purity-Personified Malfoy, always flaunting his beautiful wife like the most glittering jewel of his collection. Not so infallibly perfect after all! Just let him try to bully her at work now, and she'd rub this newest failure right in his detestable face.

Hermione moved to the couch, newspaper clutched in hand, making herself comfortable as she prepared to ingest every sordid little detail the Prophet had managed to dig up. Those investigative journalists were so diligent and credible.

She snuggled back into the cushions and smoothed out the newspaper on her lap. She almost felt like pouring herself a glass of strawberry champagne.

* * *

...

_'Bing-Bong!'_

Hermione let out a small screech of irritation as the doorbell rudely interrupted her gleeful perusal of the front-page feature. _Damn it! Could she not read her juicy gossip in peace without being harangued by some do-gooder armed with soup and sympathy?!_

She jumped up and barrelled over to the door, scolding words already tumbling out of her mouth as she unhooked the latch. "I _told_ you, I'm perfectly fine! Could you all _please_ stop worry—"

She jerked the door open and for several long seconds just stood there, staring up at the wizard darkening her doorstep, confounded into total silence.

"Ing," she finished at last.

Lucius Malfoy smiled. Not smirked, or sneered, or simpered, but actually smiled. Rather dazzlingly, if she cared to admit it. Which she most definitely did not.

"Ms. Granger," the blond wizard addressed her in a civil tone, disorientingly devoid of sarcasm, "how nice to see you looking so well. I trust you're feeling better after your...er, 'car' accident, I think I read in the Prophet?" So saying his silver eyes swiftly surveyed the issue still clutched in her hand, across which his own face was so prominently displayed. With a small gulp Hermione quickly hid the newspaper behind her back, then hastily threw it behind the door, flinching at the tell-tale rustle as it hit the wall and fell to the floor.

"I'm very thank you, doing well for asking," she blurted, flustered into incoherency by being caught out so obviously reading the article about him. She flushed to her hairline. "That is, I'm doing very well, thank you for asking."

"I'm glad," he replied with a sincerity more disarming than an Expelliarmus spell. "We've all been...most concerned."

Hermione was alarmed at exactly how strong an impulse she had to return his smile. Disgusted with herself and suspicious of the man causing her so much confusion, she forced a scowl upon her face instead. "What do you want, Malfoy?" she snapped at him. "Because you're not going to get it, whatever it is."

Lucius Malfoy's eyes gleamed with amusement as he spread his hands in a gesture of entreaty. "Only to see how you're getting on, my dear.—Oh, and to give you this." He produced from beneath his robe a large black folder and held it out to her with a flourish. Was it a mocking flourish? Hermione wasn't sure, and her scowl intensified.

"What is it?"

"An official copy of the minutes from the last six months Board meetings," Lucius replied suavely. "You did request them, did you not?"

"Y-yes," Hermione admitted, still wavering between suspicion and downright distrust. "How did you know _that_?"

"I overheard our Chairman asking the secretary to prepare them for you, and since I happened to be heading to this neighbourhood on another matter..." He shrugged airily. "I volunteered to make the delivery."

Hermione dissected his reply for any hint of backhanded insult or double-entendre but came up perplexingly empty-handed. It really seemed like the man might...might simply be doing a good turn for a sick colleague? She supposed stranger things could happen. The sea could spontaneously turn into 332.5 million cubic miles of butterbeer, for example.

She grumbled out a very unwilling, "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Ms. Granger," Lucius replied smoothly, apparently quite unperturbed by her ungraciousness. "Well, I mustn't keep you from your rest. I very much look forward to seeing you at work next week." And with the most graceful movement in the world, which seemed somehow utterly natural yet ridiculously gallant, he caught up her hand, bowed over it and brushed it with his lips. For a second, his eyes lifted to connect with hers and Hermione's pulse leaped erratically in response to something molten and imperative and unmistakably covetous behind that cool, silvery gaze. Hastily she snatched her hand from out of his long fingers, swallowing dryly as she watched him straighten up to his full height again.

"Goodbye, my litt...ahem. Goodbye, my dear," he murmured, and she thought she must be going mad for his voice actually sounded tender. "These are also for you."

Shocked into momentary paralysis, Hermione observed the wizard elegantly saunter a few feet away and Disapparate. She stood riveted to the spot, inundated by a tidal wave of confusing sensations—a spiralling warmth that seemed to begin where his lips had touched her hand and was quickly spreading over her entire body; a kind of dizzying intoxication from the heady scent he left behind, of fine cigars, expensive cologne and unequivocal masculinity...and a strange disorientation at the caressing tone of his voice and smouldering lustre of those silver eyes. Most disturbing of all was an encroaching awareness of a warm dampening of her lacy knickers.

 _What in Hades' Handbasket is wrong with me?_ she wondered.

She stared down at the bouquet of twelve exquisite cream-coloured blooms, which Lucius had placed on top of the black folder. Each flower was at that beautifully-fragile stage of unfurling, the leaves were beaded with a dew-charm, the stems de-thorned and wrapped in gauzy layers of gold tissue, all held together with a bow of pale-green silk ribbon.

Sighing, Hermione shut the door and padded back inside. She supposed she ought to throw them on the fire, but to be perfectly honest she had never been given anything so beautiful in her life. It really would be criminal to burn them.

...Besides, it wasn't like she was fooled by his act. She knew a charm-offensive when she saw one, especially when it manifested with gallant hand-kisses and gorgeous roses. She would easily resist whatever scam he was trying to get her onside with.

 _Oh, no, I'm not stupid_ , Hermione thought, as she brought the bouquet to her nose and inhaled its delightful fragrance. _I know his game._

_I mean, it's not like he's trying to seduce me._

…

FINIS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'aw! I'm feeling a little emotional right now. I really hope you enjoyed this story and, most importantly, got some good giggles out of it. I'd love to hear what your favourite scene was, and if you'd like to see an eventual sequel.  
> See you all again soon! *kisses*


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